


Starry Eyed

by twistedthicket1



Series: Constellations Of Hearts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Child Abuse, Complete, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mild Smut, Romance, Teenlock, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:03:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 66
Words: 166,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whe sixteen year old John Watson escapes from his poor and abusive home and manages to get into a private school, he can't believe his luck. However, the other students in this school aren't your average kind. When he runs into a bad-boy Sherlock who's known to be unpredictable as he is passionate about everything he does, sparks fly. However, Sherlock's never actually shown interest in anyone before, and his goof-off attitude hides a genuine brilliance about him. There's no denying that both of them spending a semester together will get a result. The question is, will it be good or bad for the two of them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New School and The New Boy

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at writing some lighter fluffy stuffs :3 not sure how long it's gonna be but if you like it let me know!

He doesn't think he can do this.

 

The late summer heat makes sweat stand out on his brow, clutching his back one-shoulder style as his nails rake the inside of his palms. Grumbling, the blonde teenager looks again at the expensive private school building that looms before him like an austere relative, judging his hand-me-down appearance and ragged haircut. It still amazes him that his grades were good enough to be accepted. A part of him half wishes they hadn't been.

 

John Watson knows he's being a ruddy coward as he hides behind the solitary pine tree across the street, silently gathering up his courage to take just a few steps forward into the unknown. He had told himself he was ready, that he was desperate enough.

That his grades were finally at a level that meant he could go places.

 

Yet he couldn't justify _anyone_ being of such nobility as to attend a school that looked more like a palace from where he was standing.

Like an ink stain on a purely white sheet of paper, even his new uniform doesn't make him feel like he should dare to step onto that manicured lawn. That it was insane of him to even kid himself into thinking he had a chance.

 

His sister's voice sounds in his head tauntingly. Harry's booming tones are easy to replicate, her boldness even in imagination forcing John's back to stiffen and jaw to harden.

 

_Coward! Show the rest of 'em rich kids what your made of!_

 

He can picture her strawberry blonde head now, peeking out from behind the school door and gesturing impatiently at him.

 

It's enough for him to dare to take a step forward.

And so,

 

John Watson steps out from behind the pine tree and into the morning sunlight, the rays reflecting his hair and turning it into platinum.

 

****

 

Inside, the school is just as impressive. Cold and stoic statues stand like porcelain guards at either side of the foyer, and John's shoes squeak awkwardly on the mosaic floor. He thinks he hears a fountain burbling somewhere nearby.

 

_Jesus Christ._

 

Trying not to gape like a commoner, her unslings his bag and  pulls out the map again, overlooking it to try and find where the hell the main office is.

All he can make out is a rough outline of what should be the stairs in front of him when there's a slamming of a door overhead on the second floor, followed by harsh shouting.

 

John looks up just in time to avoid being buried under a showering of dirty clothes as a basket is tossed angrily over the edge, the culprit pushing it aside for better escape as they run down the hall. Behind them there is a fierce shout and then

“Dammit Sherlock get back here!”

 

He sees a gangly figure expertly leap over the railing, sliding down as fast as he can. John catches an impish smile, dilated eyes and dark curls as he's brushed past, shoved down to the ground rather unceremoniously. The dark shape of a trench-type coat flies back like a cape around the teens legs. He's fast, lithe like a cat on its' toes.

 

“You're gaining weight Mycroft! Need to lay off the cheesecake!”

 

He notices John then on the ground, grin turning larger. It's the kind of smile that warms his entire face, lighting up his clear blue eyes and making his pale features seem even sharper than they already are. The young teen would call it wolfish, if he could think past the realization that the boy in front of him is as high as a kite.

His pupils are dilated to pinpoints, and he can't seem to stop moving. His eyes flick over every which way and he mumbles under his breath like an addict. Except there is an awareness to him that doesn't suit an addict type. A light in those irises.

 

“Sixteen. Middle-child. Commanding sister. Never done drugs. Military type. Takes good orders. Honest-type.”

As he resumes his break-neck pace, the blonde youth blinks and knows that the boy has described him in just a glance.

 

Then he hears pounding steps on the tiles and he whips his head around to prepare for another assault.

 

This time, John is ready and moves out of the way of the older boy. He's actually wearing the uniform over his shorter build, unlike the curly haired youth now turning a corner. His face is round and pink with anger as he slows down, gripping his chest and growling out

 

“I'll have you expelled and sent back to Mum! I swear on my life!”

 

The venom in his words is filled with years of pranks. Years of dealing with trouble. It holds a weight that would be almost scary if the boy's cheeks were not so red from exhertion.

 

 

John stares in open shock as the young man pants, straightening and adjusting his collar agitatedly. His blue eyes flash as they look around and for the first time notices the ruffled blonde teenager sitting on the floor, clothes strewn all about him like a sad homeless man.

His eyes are cold.

Like frosted glass as he stares John down.

In them there is a mild disgust at the pale youth's state as he re-aligns the cuffs to his wrists and smoothes himself out like a ruffled chicken.

 

He gets the feeling that his gaze misses nothing as they take into account his hand-me-down clothes, freckles and not-quite-there peach fuzz on his chin.

Turning bright red, John finds that he is unable to look the older boy in the eyes.

 

Without introducing himself, his voice sounds orders like a seasoned general.

 

“Main office is down the hall. I _apologize_ on my brother's behalf John Watson.”

 

Then, without offering him a backward's glance, he chases down the hall, re-focused on his attempts at capture.

It's so abrupt.

He didn't even offer to help clean up the mess that has been made all over the foyer.

It takes a moment for John to realize that what just happened was real.

That he's now responsible for clothes he didn't even own.

Sitting on the floor, it occurs to him blankly that he had never given the older boy his name.

_What kind of school have I gotten into?_

 

He wonders to himself.

 

Getting up to his feet, he folds the clothes distractedly before he puts them back into their basket.

The grin of the dark-haired boy that flashed him a wickedly handsome smile fills his mind as dazedly he turns, taking himself and his bag to the office. His cheeks feel hotter than normal, and he just hopes that his face isn't too flushed as he finds the office woman smiling at him and telling him all about his timetable.

 

 

 

 


	2. An Unwanted Roomate

As it turns out, his room is on the other side of campus. John is partly relieved at the thought of being as far away as he can from the strange insanity of the two strange teenagers, and welcomes the small, cozy dorm with a smile. From the outside it looks like a cheery little lodge, the brightly painted green door reading

**221 B**

 

In italic gold.

 

Briefly, it occurs to John that from the size of the place he must have a roomate. The thought doesn't deterr him, and instead makes his grin become a little more real. Perhaps he could become friends with whoever the person is, and perhaps they could show him around. The thought of not have to face his first year alone helps the tight knot in his chest to loosen a little.

 

Jimmying the door knob, the hinges creak as he steps in, brushing his feet carefully on the mat.

There's the smell of pine wood that's embedded in the very walls.

Old.

Gentle.

Peaceful.

It's a bright place, light streams through two separate windows near the ceiling and hit the polished floor so that it shines from within. Everything is painted a dusky golden hue. The main bedroom branches off in two directions, one way leading towards a small but functional kitchen, the other towards a bathroom and a living room. Two beds lie across from each other on opposite ends, one starkly bare and obviously never used.

 

The other looks like it's less slept in and more used as a small laboratory, textbooks sprawled all over the place in confusing and nonsensical ways along it's edge and headboard.

John muses absently at who is dormate might be as he lets his bag slide onto the bare mattress, staring at the strangely organized mess before him. He assumes it must be a senior boy, as no junior that he can think of would willingly read a textbook in latin or advanced chemistry.

Dishes lie everywhere, stacked precariously upon dressers and shelves. The sink is filled with them upon inspection. There's not a free space to rest anything upon, and papers line the walls and show complicated blueprints and diagrams. They flutter with the smallest breath, as if desperate to leave their imprisonment. Over head hanging from the arching ceiling, strings of christmas lights serve as illumination so that even dark corners are visible, twisting and weaving in amongst the rafters. It's like walking into a Wonderland, exotic and marvellous and strange.

 The small-town farm boy marvels at it all, picking his way along from the kitchen to the small television set resting in the corner. There is a single chair, high-backed and rather uncomfortable looking. John doesn't dare touch it as it seems to hold a certain air of dignity that his lower hands shouldn't taint. Instead he circles around, gazing at a notepad coated in neat handwriting. Today's date is written in, but the rest of the page is blank. The wallpaper is sufficiently modern, and everything seems to be lived in and softens by life.

John likes this place. He can almost imagine being happy.

Feeling safe.

 

But it's when he opens the refrigerator that his mouth falls open and he almost gags. Body parts, scientifically dissected and systematically organized in trays and petri dishes. An eyeball in a jar stares at him in indignation, and John slams the door shut hastily and leans into the kitchen sink to retch. The metallic sound of water rinsing out his bile is sharp in the silence.

 

_Who the hell keeps body parts in a fridge?_

 

Stumbling back to his bed, he flops woozily onto his mattress. Pale and sweating, he begins to muse at the idea that his Dorm mate might be a serial killer. That would be an interesting twist of irony on his life.

 

The sad part was, it was still better than back home.

Curling onto his side and whomping his pillow into a desired shape, that revelation is what causes his eyes to drift closed finally.

It's been too long since he's slept without having to worry.

Dreamed without having to cower.

He plans on relishing this time for as long as he can.

Most kids hated school, but for John, it was a vacation.

His only escape.

He's almost forgotten the boy with dark curls, or his brother with the cold stare. Instead he dreams of shooting stars falling to Earth, that he's riding on the back of one with the wind brushing his hair and in the water there's a mysterious but magnetic smile, and he explodes into a thousand dazzling colours that all end in emerald green.

 

*****

 

In the end, it's the slamming door that wakes John from his sleep. Mouth like sandpaper he jolts awake blearily, blinking into the dim light. He can't remember for a second where he is, the walls unfamiliar and the sheets foreign to touch. For one panicked second, he thinks he's home.

Rolling over, he sees the tall shadow before he fully registers that his room mate is muttering loudly in the kitchen. His bed creaks as he sits up, and he catches the sinkingly familiar voice as it rises into full-blown anger.

 

“Stupid, _stupid_ idiotic. Half-wit brother! I solve more issues in this school and town than the _police_ and all I ask for is a _little_ freedom-”

 

Standing, John ducks just in time to avoid a cup that comes from the kitchen. It hurtles above his head, smashing loudly against the wall. The china pieces are a light blue and fall behind the crack of his bed to land on the floor.

_Well that's a bit not good...._

 It appears that the youth hasn't noticed yet the new guest in his home. Cautiously grabbing a heavy textbook as a shield just in case, John is forced to confirm his worst fears. The growing suspicion that his year is going to be ruined.

The dark haired youth paces the kitchen floor aggressively, dark curls flying as he whips around and punches the wall. There's previous dents that John hadn't noticed before-

 

It seems this a bit of a regular occurrence.

He is like a whirlwind of destruction as he rattles plates, throwing dishes and body parts and food all about. Like a child having a tantrum, except his vocabulary is no child's as he effectively calls his brother words that make John's ears turn pink.

 

The loud clearing of his throat stops his pale hand from winding back and aiming for the same spot of plaster again.

 

Slowly, green eyes meet blue as both stare at each other in open surprise and irritation.

John wonders if he's about to have something thrown at him.

A book maybe.

Or perhaps just a severed head.

 

Then, the boy raises a pale finger, voice cold and harsh. It's filled with righteous anger.

“What are _you_ doing in my room?!”

 

“Funny. I was about to ask _you_ the same thing.”

 

His sarcastic remark doesn't seem to register in the youth's face as he stops pacing, turning full tilt and facing John down. His height is nearly six feet, and despite being gangly he towers over his blonde head. The sudden closeness is not what John is expecting, he can suddenly see that the youth's eyes are not green but a very edgy shade of blue. His hair is as inky as the coat he wears-

the same coat he had been wearing when he had been running from his brother. His breath smells of peppermint and lack of sleep and John notices a cartilage piercing in his right ear. It glints like the tail end of a headlight.

Then a memory flashes through his mind, and he recoils like the young man is poison and stumbles back into the wall.

The truth is, he's expecting a slap.

Except this youth is not his Father, and standing up to him does not invoke rage.

 

The dark haired youth watches it all with a sort of simmering fury, and John soon understands why.

 

“ _Mycroft._ He had them take away my rooming privileges. Worse he stuck me with an obvious _freshman._ ”

 

John's cheeks turn red, opening his mouth to retort hotly despite his nervousness.

“I got here on my _grades_ alone-”

 

“He's obviously stuck me with a priss in hopes it'll rub off on me.” He snorts, totally ignoring John's outrage. Moving out of the kitchen like an angular cat, he becomes lost as he talks quietly to himself.

“Attempting to 'smoke me out' until I'm willing to bend to his rules. Tricky. _Very_ tricky.”

 

John, attempting to regain some composure, ignores the insult of _priss_ and straightens indignantly, stalking forward and blocking the youth's path with his body like a barricade.

He's had enough of this.

When he speaks it's just short of a shout, as if somehow if he raises his voice this lunatic will listen.

 

“I'm sorry. _Who_ are you? Who's Mycroft? And is this my room or not?”

 

Freezing like a startled deer, he brings the man finally pauses, pushing back his shoulders in apathy as his eyes flash.

There's a cruel composure that seems to strike him, as if he remembers his rage is not the normal kind of behaviour.

The kind of frigidness that invokes icicles to form spontaneously.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and _you_ are John Watson as your suitcase dictates.”

 

He points to a tiny label on the side of John's bag, where Harry had put a small tag on the handle.

Then he jabs a finger at his chest.

 

“And _you_ are most certainly _not_ staying _here._ ”

 

Then with a growl, and a well-placed looked of disdain, Sherlock Holmes stalks out the door, leaving another mess for someone else to clean up.

For a moment, all that can be heard are John's shallow breaths as he fights to maintain his temper.

Then, gripping his stomach and feeling a little ill all of a sudden, he flops back down on his bed and sighs deeply into his pillow.

He knew he shouldn't have signed up for private school.

He _knew_ he shouldn't have listened to Harry.


	3. No Place To Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah this has a little bit of sexual stuff... just a heads up...

 Sherlock does not come back to his room for the rest of the evening.

Surmising that the roguish youth has gone to either shout at his brother or perhaps to find another illicit drug, John quietly accepts the solitude with some actual relief. For the rest of the afternoon he gently begins unpacking, careful not to displace anything of his roomate's. His outline is dark against the sky as it slowly turns from deep blue to a bloody red, and finally to a mango orange before dousing itself like a candle.

He's not sure how far he should invade the man's personal space, breaching seems like a bad idea if he doesn't want to be found as a cold and lifeless body on the side of the road. So he treads carefully as he places the picture of Harry and his younger brother on his nightstand.

 

Though he'd be loathe to admit that the dark-curled youth is a little bit frightening, he does as little as possible to antagonize him upon his return. He doesn't touch the dishes, and avoids the fridge entirely. Since calming down a little John realizes that his roomate must have been in shock upon his arrival. His reaction had been natural, especially if he was angry already.

Yet a part of him _wants_ to push Sherlock, a deep-seated need to convince those sharp green eyes that he _can_ and _will_ live here. That he's worked hard. That this man had no hold on him and that he would fend for himself. That he _deserves_ to be treated with more respect. Especially from someone so.... so.....

 

_Sociopathic._

 

That was the word!

Laughing almost hysterically to himself, he slams his textbooks down on the floor. It lands dejectedly, cover creasing a little. He ignores it like it's somehow taking the blame for Sherlock's unjustified outrage.

John was rooming with a legitimate sociopath.

 

He had escaped one form of insanity and traded it for another. The thought makes him kick the wall so hard his toes sting and he can't slow his breathing down.

Memories keep resurfacing that he doesn't want to re-live.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

_Fuck._

_Fuck._

 

No. He wasn't going to break down like this. Gasping, he sits down in a corner, forcing himself to breathe.

Wasn't going to remember.

He was going to ignore it and he was going to soldier on, and nobody would have to know. Nobody could make him return to his old home like a coward.

Least of all dark, dangerous and quite frankly unpredictable Sherlock Holmes.

 

Eyes sliding uneasily towards the door again, he wonders just when he'll see that intensely angular face. Deciding he has no real way of knowing, he decided it was probably just for the best to tuck in for the night.

Clambering into bed, he pulled the comfortor over his face.

Lulling himself into a sort of semi-sleep, John Watson does his absolute best to ignore the silence of his room and how it's so different from the screams and shouts that threaten to overtake him within the depths of his uneasy mind.

 

****

It's the sound of two bodies colliding roughly in the darkness that wakes John up. Even in the shadows, he can't not know what's happening in the dark.

Even though he can't see, there's no mistaking the tone.

The implication.

The need in the air.

His blue eyes shine in the darkness as the two shadowy figures comb each other's bodies, in haste discarding all precaution and sense. They roam over each other like they need a fix to an addiction, and he sees the exposing of pale skin ghost-like under the moon.

Lying perfectly still and unseen, he watches the scene play out before him hardly daring to breathe. His heart twisting like a knife, he can't look away.

Sherlock's piercing glimmers in the moonlight as he lets out a low animalistic growl, pressing his lips to the neck of the girl in front of him.

Tasting her.

Touching.

She leans into this contact sensually, red hair shimmering as she responds by wrapping her hands about his waist. Her lips are dark red, and they part as she leans into his chest. Her moan is kitten-like, and both of them press against the wall like they wish to become one just across from John's bed. There's the smell of alcohol on them, pure and acrid. Hands roam each other's chests, touch feather-light yet sharp.

Never missing anything.

The heat emanating from them is equal to an exploding star at it's peak.

He's sure Sherlock bites the inside of her collarbone as the two of them fall on the bed, the girl licking her lips as she arches her back like a cat at his touch. Bruises line her shoulders, little signs that they've been at it for quite a while.

 

John can't seem to move, fixated into place by open shock and embarrassment. He thinks he might disappear into his mattress if he dares to blink.

 He should say something, should speak, but the words die in his throat as the clothes begin to be shed like snake-skin, tossed to where his forgotten textbook lies.

He makes a mental note to apologize to the poor thing profusely later on.

Their lips lock together, tongues battling for dominance. Flashing pink in the dark.

The sheer force that they use on each other is at once startling as it is noisy. The bed groans as they move, in tune to each other like the Earth and sky.

All-consuming.

The pale youth feels like he can't look anymore.

 

And then, because John suspects nobody will be noticing anything any time soon, he rolls over so he faces the wall and claps his hands to his ears, attempting to drown the pair out.

_Think of something._

_Anything._

_God's sake man, even puppies and rainbows are better than this!_

 

Instead the pair get louder and harder to ignore as the night goes on.

The floor begins to creak like an old woman. They are constantly moving, bumping against walls and against that blasted fridge and even on the carpet. It seems to last forever.

John thinks he might be sick.

 

And that's when fingernails become involved, and soon he has to press the pillow over his ears to keep from bursting with exasperation.

 

Finally, he can take it no more and face flaming brilliant crimson the damn bursts as he sits up and shouts, breaking the sounds of passion to pieces.

“OH FOR _CHRIST'S SAKE-_ ”

 

At first, the two break apart only slightly, the girl letting out a surprised and embarrassed squeal, covering herself hastily. For a moment John half-suspects they'll be nervy enough to continue without care, but then with a sigh blue-green eyes fixate on him with sheer irritation.

 Sherlock, curls mussed and frowning, sits up like he's just been interrupted from doing homework. Or perhaps a book.

 

John however stands, crossing the room and grabbing his clothes, hastily shoving them into his small bag. He becomes a whirlwhind as he shouts incomprehensible things, unsure of what he's grabbing blindly in the dark. In the process he stubs his toe on the dresser, not helping his mental state. His cry of

"GODAMMIT SHERLOCK." Only makes the cat eyes that trail him glimmer with amusement.

 He doesn't bother with his books, he obviously would not need them. Face still flaming as if it's been flogged, he cusses as he stalks about the room, ignoring the girl who seems to have burst into tears at the foot of Sherlock's bed.

“ _Honestly._ All I ever wanted was a nice _quiet_ room where I could learn and maybe have someone to occasionally talk to. That to much for you God? Really? No. I'm done. I refuse to do this. I'm going back I'm going-”

 

He breaks off, for a moment too furious to speak. He chokes, tries to come up with something, but only air comes out of his throat.

Sherlock watches all of this with a sort of sly cat-like expression, his face impassive.

Then John, cheeks burning in the dark, grips his bag so hard his knuckles turn white.

His whisper is deadly soft.

But his words are more of a question.

A sound of frustration.

 

“I'm going.....?”

 It looks almost like he could be frozen in that position forever.

A statue of indecision.

A dead man preparing to hang himself at the gallows.

For a moment, the glimmer fades somewhat from Sherlock's triumphant irises.

 

Then, watching his outline shake himself out of whatever stupor had momentarily caught hold of him, he watches his now ex-roomate sling his things over one shoulder and without a look back open the door and stomp off into the dark. The sound of the door slamming is somehow final and resolute in the late night. Outside he can see the stars glimmering, and knows the teen will have no issue finding his way in the shadows.

 

And even though Irene beside him is in hysterics he can't help but smirk as he buttons back up his shirt, smoothing down the edges.

_Well. At least **that** was taken care of. Where is your Authority now, dear brother?_


	4. The Garden and Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so thanks so much for all the comments and kudos I've received! It makes me happy to know people are so interested in one of my works. :3 Please feel free to give constructive critism at any time, because it's how I learn! Well, here's the next chapter!

By dawn, the branches of the tree he's been sleeping in are digging into his spine and arms, leaving rough marks as John sits up and wearily wonders why the sun has to rise so bloody early. The solid oak hides him from view of the school as he slips on his uniform up over his head, just deciding to be thankful that it hadn't rained last night as he tries to force the heaviness of sleep from his limbs.

 

In the end the school's garden had seemed like the safest place to get a few hours of shut-eye. John, too angry to think straight, hadn't dared march up to the office in the middle of the night. Instead he had paced the grounds for a few good hours in the dark, running laps sporadically to cool down his head. Once he think he tripped and rolled in the grass, uncaring as he shouted cuss words into the air.

The night chill had forced him to keep moving, but even in most violent moment of fury, John didn't even think about intruding on the shining building in the distance.

He didn't want help from anyone.

If there was one thing he hated, it was asking others for help.

It embarrassed him, and made him feel no better than a little boy.

He was a coward if he couldn't handle this on his own.

 

In fact he had only managed to find the garden at all because the clouds had covered the stars and plunged him at one point in utter darkness.

That had stopped his anger, replacing it with fear of the dark.

He had wandered hopelessly for a moment until he had caught the faint shimmering glow of water. At this point desperate for any kind of landmark in the massive grounds, he ran for it with abandon.

There, he had found the silent rose bushes, snow white like swan feathers as their petals closed for the night in sleep. Seen the crawling ivy and marvelled in open shock, forgetting momentarily his anger.

 

It was beautiful.

The lake itself was like a huge reflective eye, staring up and reflecting the sky in it's depths as smoothly as a sheet of glass. Everything glistened, surreal and effervescent with moonlight. It played tricks on his eyes and made even the smallest leaf seem to shine from within like a faerie. Here and there stone statues crouched and arched in beautiful but terribly sad poses, crawling vines wrapping tightly as if threatening to pull them under the ground. And there, in the centre of it all, was the oak.

John had until now never seen anything so tall and solitary in his life.

 

Easily spanning thirty feet tall, his back strained as he gazed up with wide, cobalt-blue eyes, taking in the canopy that seem to envelop the ground beneath it like a massive blanket. The trunk was thicker than his waist, and when he slowly reached up to touch a hand to the smooth bark it almost hummed with life. Without realizing what he was doing, John was suddenly climbing up the massive branches, breathless to reach the top. Every muscle in his limbs sang with exertion, distracting him from all thought. All that mattered in that moment was the view he wanted to see, because at that second he could almost swear he was climbing high enough that if he reached out he could touch the stars.

 

When he could climb no more, his lungs burning and his bag too heavy, John sat in the fork between two branches, his eyes roaming the scenery before him as he panted to catch his breath. Though it was chilly up in the wind, he didn't care. His blonde locks became tussled with the breeze as he leaned out and saw the night sky, clean and pure.

He had never seen the stars so bright, or so many of them clustered into a single space. They lay over the garden like a giant map, categorizing everything.

A name for every star.

 

The thought made John smile, even as for the night at least he realizes he's essentially homeless.

Still, the garden in all it's beauty was the best home he could ask for.

The peace lulling him into a deep sleep, John closed his eyes as he leaned against his arm.

He had never drifted off so easily in his life.

 

 

Now though, he was starting to feel the aches and pains that came from spending the night stuck in an unforgiving tree. His breath tasted sour in his mouth, and he brushed his teeth as well as he could while trying not to fall to his death nearly ten feet below. The toothpaste, dry and lingering without tap water made his head pound lightly. Checking his watch, he noticed he had a half-hour to get to his class. That made his rush all the more panicked. Looking at the distant white blotch that was

_Adelaide's Private school._

 

He noted with worry that he had wandered quite a distance from the other buildings. He had nothing to comb his hair with, or a mirror to make sure his collar was straight. Some of last night's irritation rose in him again and he mentally cursed the name Sherlock a thousand times as he rifled about his bag for a pair of socks.

He would have to address that at some point.

Still, avoidance had always let him survive.

The first thought that surfaces is the pink, round-faced boy who Sherlock had cussed out and claimed brotherhood with. However, those hopes quickly get dashed.

He had only his name, Mycroft, and though it was an uncommon enough name there were over two hundred kids attending the school. Chances were even if he found him, high up as he probably was he would have little time or patience for a junior student just starting out.

The next possibility was going straight to the Head Office, and to speak with the supervisor.

Another bad choice.

There was the chance they'd call his family, and John's stomach rolled uneasily at the thought of his Father arriving on school grounds.

The thought of having to see that face again makes him wish that he could just go back to sleep.

There was no good solution, and with a sigh he forced himself to face the fact he might be forced to spend more than just one night up in the oak. A nasty voice in the back of his mind whispered

 

_You even left your books back at 221 B. Let's call it a day. You're boned._

 

John crushed the thought viciously in his head before it grew into a full-blown fear.

No.

He could not and would not stand the amount of satisfaction Sherlock would have if he found out he hadn't even stuck around for the first day of school.

Somehow, the thought of that slow, cat-like smirk was the final straw for John as he scrambled down the tree, minding now his uniform.

He'd be damned if he gave that git that kind of satisfaction.

He _would_ go to class. He would get good grades too.

 

He would live his school life and do his damnedest to _enjoy_ it, all to spite him.

 

The thought sends a cold smirk of his own flashing over his features.

If he was good at anything, it was acting. He would be the most positive and upbeat junior out of all the others. Every time he would see that _stupidly_ proud and preening jerk he'd smile and laugh and have a good time.

John, spine stiffening as if he was about to enter a war zone, began his long trek across the manicured grounds.

 

_To hell with Sherlock, I have one thing that he doesn't._

 

In the lake he catches a glimpse of his reflection, determined eyes shining with the oncoming dawn.

 

_I have enough courage to clock a man if I don't like them. Not just skirt noisily around the issue until he gets fed up and leaves._

 

Satisfied the teen laughs, for once his chest filling with a warm sort of confidence that doesn't leave him as he makes his way to school.

 

****

His first class as it turns out is Philosophy. It takes John quite awhile to find, as it lies on the third floor as is one of the smaller rooms of the school. On his way there he passes massive stage-like chambers where professors assign numbers to their students, and rooms with so many bubbling liquids and unidentifiable body parts it's like walking into a mad scientists brain. Everything is maze-like and solitary, and each hallway ends at uncertain points. Feeling lost but not quite so small, he inadvertently spies someone who seems to be just as confused as he his, hiding behind a curtain. The girl smiles uncertainly as she realizes she's being shyly watched, as her freckled cheeks warm like a desert sun as she asks

“Philosophy class 664 A?”

 

As it turns out, her name is Summer Blakely.

She's from L.A and has a smile that quickly makes John's heart thrum just a little bit faster. Her honey-brown curls cascade down her back in long waves and her accent is sharp like her tongue. Green eyes glimmer mischievously as she explains to him her predicament.

 

“My older brothers all went here. I'm the youngest y'know so I kind of have to live up to all of 'em. Still, I got lots of secrets about this place as a nice trade off so I can't complain. Family's all military, and I guess I'm headed into aviary service after I get my masters in English.”

She smiles easily as she says this, smoothing her skirt pleats as she walks with a light hop-skip beside him. Her walk is nice, graceful but still friendly. She has a nice feeling about her, comforting and radiant.

John instantly likes her carefree attitude, but turns bright red as her sharp eyes catch him looking at her figure. Her grin is impish as she shakes her head, looking on him with almost pity.

“Sorry. Not gonna happen I'm afraid. Though you are a sweetheart.” Leaning forward conspiratorially, she whispers in his ear.

 

“I play for a _different_ kind of team.”

 

Then she jerks her chin almost longingly at a raven-haired beauty of a girl with a sad sort of sigh. John chuckles despite being brushed off, not too hard done by. He has to admit, she has good tastes.

“All well. Just a thought. Still, won't hurt anyone to be friends right?”

 

“I like you farm boy. You don't get mad easy do you?”

 

He stifles another laugh, remembering how angry he had been this morning.

 

“It happens enough that I wish I was better controlling my temper.”

 

Summer nods as if in understanding, and the two soon find themselves in a comfortable friendship as they arrive to class just before the bell rings. They each slide into a desk side by side, and soon they find out who their teacher his. When he walks in the chattering that buzzes about them falls slightly quieter.

He's an older man, not elderly but not spry, with grey hair flecking the dark brown on his head. He smiles tiredly as everyone shuffles into order, and John gets the distinct impression he is only a year or two from retirement. There is a certain routine look about him, as if teaching high schoolers comes to him as naturally as breathing air.

He introduces himself as Mr. Lestrade.

From his attitude, it's obvious he wants to jump right into work.

 

“I want you to partner up with someone for this class.” He announces, quickly easing into a teaching setting as he braced his hands against his desk.

“When you do I want you to talk. Get to know the person. Then, when you think you know them well enough, come up to the board and tell me the first five things you observed about them. What they like. Their personality.” His smile is brief but real as he turns and rights what he's just said down on the board.

 

“Most people won't even realize how wrong their perceptions are.”

 

Quickly, the class divides itself up. Summer and John find a place in the back of the class, but neither is particularly interested in the assignment. Instead the elfin girl is content dishing up all of the dirt she can that's been hiding in _Adelaide's_ brick walls.

“Greg Lestrade? Yeah he's been divorced. Twice. Had a breakdown a few years ago. My brother Tim says he's wicked smart and not a half bad teacher for all that though. Bit of an ass if you piss him off however.”

 

John watches her eyes lazily roll over the other students, pinpointing with her gaze a lanky kid with ginger hair.

“He's Tom Phelps younger brother. If he's anything like him he'll be on all the sports teams. Honest people. Good to hang around if you like quiet.”

 

Watching her slowly give tidbits of information away, He wonders how she can store so much inside her tiny head. Like sifting grain, she has the uncanny ability to see to the heart of things, and soon he is aware of every tick and mentality his classmates have.

Smiling, he wonders to himself if Summer doesn't know something about even _him._

John is suddenly struck with a thought. Before he can stop it he blurts it out

“Do you know anything on Sherlock Holmes?”

 

For a moment, she just stares at him. Her mouth is partly open in shock, and the blood in her cheeks drains.

Then, it returns in full colour.

“I think the right think to say is what _don't_ I know. That one's a fucking _legend!_ "

 

She pulls him closer excitedly, her voice now whispering and fast.

“He's the youngest senior to ever enrol in _Adelaide's_ for one, and originally was only twelve when he arrived. He's incredibly insane, brilliant but insane. I mean it, he punched a teacher out once because he wasn't doing a chemistry lab properly. Bad attitude that one. His brother is like a minefield of top secret stuff. People think he actually works for the queen. How did you come to hear that name? I thought you knew nothing about.... wait-”

 

Her eyes narrow, and her breath comes out in a hiss.

“Don't tell me you _met_ him?”

 

John, sensing her mix of horror and awe, laughs her accusation away nervously.

“No! I just heard some students muttering his name when I arrived. I was curious.”

 

He can't quite meet her eyes though as he imagines that pale and angular face.

_A genius._

 

So that would explain it.

_Bad attitude._

 

He had known that from the start. Summer's suspicion isn't going away though, so he hastily changes the subject.

“What's your favourite food?”

 

Blinking, she responds as they get down to the lesson.

Still, throughout the class John can't help but imagine those cat-like eyes and ask himself

 

_Just who in the hell.... are you?_


	5. An Undecided Chemistry

Having Summer as a bumper against the rougher pitfalls of high school proves to make the day a relaxing one for John. Even without his textbooks, the fiery blonde has a way of convincing the teachers of his farm-boy naivete just enough that he's allowed to be forgetful but not be considered stupid. He answers a few questions, and earns the particular liking  of his phys. Ed teacher because he's the only one able to scale the rock wall effortlessly. It's just like climbing up the mountains around his home, and John excels in particular because he reminds himself that he's going to have to get used to climbing the oak so he should do his best. 

Summer is in almost all of his classes. As it turns out, he's coincidentally signed himself up for almost every course a soldier would need. The thought actually makes him pause for a moment and consider.

What did he want to do when he left here?

 

He had really only decided on this school because it meant he could live on campus. When he mentions such thoughts to Summer she laughs airily and pats him on the shoulder.

“Don't worry, you don't have to know right now. My oldest brother Edmund didn't realize that he wanted to be a navy technician right off the bat. He was all determined to break out of the family's military streak. Tried to be chef, perfect job for him except for the fact that he hates working with people and burns even cereal.”

 

Her grin is impish.

“Now come on, last class and the one where you're on your own. You should be fine, but if something bad happens don't be afraid to call on your friendly neighbourhood elf down the hall.”

She winks, and with a pat on his shoulder vanishes off to her next subject.

John watches her retreating figure navigate itself through the crowds for a moment longer then sighs, turning down the hall to the last door at the end of Wing C.

His schedule identifies the spacious area with no windows as his Chemistry class.

 

Walking in, he sees beakers lying on the counters and bubbling, writhing with chemicals and unknown substances under low flame. The board is covered with scrawling handwriting, and posters line the walls with the periodic table and displacement bonds. The desks are already filled with lots of people, many of them looking far more studious than he did. The school had placed him in the advanced difficulty level for most of his subjects because of his grades, but John had never felt so utterly out of his league. He was a hard worker sure, but most certainly not a genius.

Sitting himself down in the back row so to pass unnoticed, he waited patiently for the teacher to arrive. His fingers drummed lightly in the bubbles of noise the other kids were making.

However they stopped dead when a familiar figure effectively turned the class to stone. He was better groomed, and actually had his uniform on for a change. He held his binders half over one shoulder as if he didn't care whether or not they fall to the ground, but there was no mistaking that tall frame or those dark curls. Sherlock Holmes eyes the crowd's shocked reaction with open distaste as he stalks in, tall frame slinking past the desks as if uncaring of all the excited whispers that had broken out around him.

John's fists clenched against his desk.

 

In a moment, their eyes would lock.

He still had time to duck, to slink his way out of the classroom and avoid this mess if he was fast enough.

A split moment of hesitation falls on him and then it's too late.

Blue eyes stare into flinty cool green, and for the first time since entering the classroom Sherlock stops his determined pace and falters. It's only for the briefest of moments, but John sees it.

The open surprise.

 

Then the mask of cold calculation is back, and both of them realize there's only one empty desk left.

Right beside John.

 

_Of course._

 

He maintains a lazy sort of posture as he stares at the blonde teen, and John feels like he's digging past his tension, his anger and trying to find his core.

Trying to find what's making him tick as he turns to him with a forced smile, keeping his tone light with a great deal of effort.

 

“Lovely day yeah?”

 

He can feel the heated stares of several of the other students, looking at him with open horror and grudging admiration as using such a friendly tone with such a cold person. John wishes he could just fade into his desk as Sherlock doesn't deign him with an answer, instead after a moment rattling off observations at high speed.

 

“Tired. Didn't sleep well last night. Jaw clenched, you're angry. That twitch? You just resisted the urge to punch me. Callouses across your knuckles. You're used to fighting. Sweat. You just came back from phys. Ed. Uniform is wrinkled, you were late to get to class. Coffee grounds, you take yours black.”

As he speaks he inches slowly closer, and John feels a familiar prickle of heat crawling up his spine. He's not sure if it's fear or anger or something else, but the man's movements make him unsteady for just a split second before he draws away.

 Sherlock doesn't bother to keep his voice down, and a number of the other kids giggle behind their hair and hands over him being so easy to read. John has to work a little harder to keep that smile plastered on his face, but he manages it if only just.

To help himself, he imagines flinging that stupid black coat Sherlock always wore down a canyon.

 

“S'pose you're correct in all of that. Sleep doesn't come to me easily in the _best_ of circumstances if you know what I mean.”

 

The silent jab is not lost on him, a single eyebrow lifting in wordless mirth and disappearing into his crown of curls. John would've thought he was almost bored with this conversation, if it weren't for the searching gaze that pinned him. No matter where it flicked it would always return unfailingly to his face. He's searching for something in John and the blonde teen's not entirely sure what until the dark-haired youth leans forward and asks in a deceptively calm manner

“So... I trust the office found you new living arrangements?”

 

_He's afraid I told on him to his brother. He's realized that my staying here makes me a liability to his school life._

 

If John hadn't been so annoyed, he might have laughed. Having the shoe on the other foot is strangely one of the more satisfying moments as he bluffs and hems and haws. Not looking at him, he glances easily around the class.

“Well.... I do have new living arrangements..... but who's to say who they told....? I mean, they certainly asked if there were any _problems_ with my room....”

 

Watching those green eyes narrow venomously is at once terrifying as it is rewarding. Sherlock's voice is like ice as he grips the edge of his desk. His knuckles turn white then pink with the force of it.

The hiss of breath that he releases might have turned into blows, if it weren't for the calm and familiar voice that sounded from the front of the class. Cutting all emotion, it makes everyone remember where they are.

In school.

 

“Mr. Holmes? I trust you and your roomate are getting along fine?”

 

All heads whip around, John's eyes widening as he takes in the teacher standing at behind their desk.

Except it's not really a teacher at all.

The young man wears a suit like most of the teachers do, but it can't be.

Impossible.

Because Mycroft Holmes himself stares at him with suppressed amusement, attendance sheet lying before him like a list of the dead and dying.

Someone chokes.

A girl gasps softly, hand clapping over her mouth as Sherlock spears her with a look.

 

Mycroft's tone is dry as he speaks over his little brother's initial cry of outrage, carrying over the noise like a knife cutting through butter.

“As many of you know, Mr. Anderson retired at the end of the year last semester, due to the um-

 _stress_ of his job.”

 

John is suddenly reminded of Summer's words.

_Punched a teacher out once for not doing a chemistry lab right._

 

Sherlock's face has become a slow shade of intense red. It's obvious he is trying very hard not to call bull-crap on his brother, and for once John almost feels a surge of empathy.

It's obvious Mycroft wasn't the first choice to teach the class.

He had _made_ himself first choice to keep a leash on his brother.

Summer had been right when she had spoken about the level of power the young man carried about him like a scepter as he stared at his new class.

The only one who is unfazed by it is Sherlock himself.

Instead he carries his own kind of power, something far more destructive and unpredictable. John gets the distinct feeling he's sitting right next to a living time-bomb.

 

However, he watches the fury slowly recede as Sherlock realizes something critical, his eyebrows lowering in thought.

Mycroft doesn't know that John's no longer his roomate.

Which means John had been playing him.

The bluff is up as he turns to stare with wide eyes at him, and he hastily ducks his head down and stares at his desk.

Toying with Sherlock Holmes didn't seem like half as much of a good idea now that he felt that icicle stare looking straight at his neck as if he might like to wring it.

 

“Due to low funding, they asked a senior student with good grades and reputation- namely _me_ to take over.”

 

Mycroft continues, but it's obvious he's only saying it for Sherlock's benefit. His smile is now genuine as he studies how his brother can't seem to get control of his emotions.

 

“Do be assured, though I am young I will not hesitate to deal with _any_ and _all_ misbehaviour in my class.”

 

Then the smile fades as he sobers up and asks seriously. His voice is almost a whisper.

“Everyone understand? Am I _clear_?”

 

Sherlock's the only one who bothers replying.

The only one who meets Mycroft's gaze and holds it defiantly even as he complies.

“ _Crystal._ ”


	6. The Truth Behind Cold Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah this chapter's a little bit sad... thanks for all the comments I've received so far! keep 'em coming as it makes me really motivated to write! you are all awesome!

Of course, true to form Sherlock bends the rules the moment he thinks he can get away with it.

It's almost instinctive, John suspects.

 

The note is flicked at him almost abusively, thrown at his elbow while Mycroft's back is turned towards the board.

He considers it in silence for a moment, thinking about just tossing it back without reading it, but he somehow knows Sherlock will just keep chucking paper balls at him until he finally gets fed up and gives him the time of day. Stifling a long and frustrated sigh, John unfolds the paper and smooths it down onto his desk. He's expecting some stupid deduction.

 

A single question.

 

_**Why didn't you tell Mycroft?** _

 

For a moment, he just looks at the writing in distaste.

Taking his time because he knows it will make him fidget, John replies in his own messy block print.

 

_I'm not some child that needs to have other people deal with the assholes in my life. I know how to get by on my own._

 

His reply seems to be not enough information for Sherlock, as he hears a sharp sound of exasperation to his right and the annoyed scribbling of a pen. His response as usual is biting as once again the paper is thrown his way, this time aimed more accurately towards the centre of his desk instead of his general form. John has to suppress a very nasty string of oaths as he reads it.

 

_**Leaving your textbooks scattered across my floor doesn't sound to be like you know how to fend for yourself. Rule one in war, never let someone have any blackmail material over you. Oh-** _

_**and you left that photograph too. The one of your sister.** _

 

John resists writing down the open question of how Sherlock knew Harry was his sibling. Instead he responded easily, becoming used to the sort of calculating game that this man seemed intent on playing with him.

 

_I could still tell your brother. Give me my books back._

 

The responses come quicker, and John feels like the silent argument is turning into a silent shouting match.

_**Unlikely. For whatever reason you want to trouble as little people as possible. If you had the guts to tell Mycroft you would have already. Now again. Why didn't you?** _

 

In frustration at the coward jibe John's head snaps to glare at Sherlock, about to tell him to mind his own damn business. What he doesn't expect is for his face to be _right_ in front of him, leaning forward so that he can see the individual flecks of gold in those cool eyes and taste the heat rolling off of him. In that look he doesn't see hatred. Instead he sees a kind of living fascination that's one hundred percent accurately pinpointed on him.

 

For one terrifying moment, John can't breathe.

Can't move.

Like a deer trapped in headlights, he wonders why the rest of the class fades to black.

 

Then, like wrenching himself out of quicksand he looks away, staring at the note and forcing his heartbeat to slow down.

He can still feel those eyes on him intently, and wonders if Sherlock knows just how unnerving he can be.

 

However he never gets a chance to reply to the piece of paper because the bells rings, jolting both of them and making them realize that they're not the only two desks in the class. Like a dream John blinks sleepily, unsure of what just happened.

Before he realizes what he's doing he's scooping up his measly notes, disappearing into the crowd before those pale eyes can follow him and track him down.

He feels to warm, like he's been under the lense of a microscope, and as he runs down the hall it's like a breath of sweet fresh air. He can't put enough distance between himself and that classroom as he bolts the stairs two at a time, running a hand through his blonde hair as finally he can run no more at the courtyard fountain. Huffing, feeling the outside wind as he sat down on the stone platform of the fountain he curled one knee against his chest, forcing himself to calm down.

 

_What in the hell just happened?_

 

John had never been so flustered around _anyone_ before. He wasn't sure if it was fear, but even his _Father_ at his worst had never been able to make him run that fast with no purpose or plan. Other students file past him more slowly, one or two occasionally passing by and giving him a strange look. He had known Sherlock made him uncomfortable, hell, he had even expected it from the moment he had found out that impossibly they were supposed to share a room.

Yet John can't justify his reaction as something purely derived from discomfort.

He can't even name it.

Or cope with it.

So instead he does the only thing he can.

He denies it viciously as he reaches into the fountain, soaking his head and pointedly ignoring the curious looks he gains from other students. Bracing his arms so he's shivering water droplets all over the stonework John focuses on a different matter at hand.

 

He had forgotten about Summer.

 

However, his guilt is put to rest as he spots the petite blonde over on the edge of the main grounds waiting for him, chatting up a pretty redhead that John soon realizes is the same girl Sherlock had been making out with only a night before. When she sees John her face turns as red as her hair and her wide smile fades, and she stumbles away like she's been shot at, making hasty excuses much to Summer's hurt and confusion.

John waits until the girl's figure ducks behind the school building and sighs, coming forward to face his friend's mild scolding.

“Okay, what did you _do_ to Irene to make her so jumpy? Are you like a part-time mob boss and I just wasn't aware? Everyone's talking about you, I had to attack one of the Pernine twins to keep them from starting a rumour that you killed someone in your old town!”

 

She looks at him in perplexion, biting down on her lower lip.

“I get the feeling you're not telling me the truth about how your arrival to the school went.”

 

John looks at her, his expression pained.

“ _Please_ Summer don't ask. I'm really tired right now and all I want to do is relax a little bit before dinner.”

 

His friend glares at him, but she doesn't push. Something about the tired lines about John's shoulders makes her expression soften as she pulls him along lightly by the arm.

“All right farm-boy I won't push. Just promise me you're not getting yourself into trouble 'kay?”

 

He promises, even though he feels like the worst kind of liar as the vow leaves his lips. Together the two walk off towards building D, which has a little coffee shop and internet access so Summer can begin the assignment she was given in accounting

(Ugh. So boring!).

 

****

 

After dinner, Summer admits that she wants to go flirt with Irene a little bit more. Her face is so moon-shiney and hopeful at the prospect of getting a girlfriend that John really can't object to her sad puppy-dog eyes.Keeping his personal thoughts on Irene private he wishes her well, watching his friend march off like a warrior about to go to battle.

He welcomes the break for a little bit, wandering the grounds until it's dark enough for him to sneak back to the garden to curl up in the crook of the oak. He managed to swipe a blanket from the nurse's office, and now he uses it as a warm cape about his shoulders. Using a torch he'd also stolen from his Father's tool shed before he left, John writes for the first time to his sister.

He had promised not to send too many letters, as there was always the chance that their Father would intercept them. Harry had moved back in albeit reluctantly when he flat had flooded. Father did not usually dare to hit her anyway, as she had always been the one to fight back. John had always been more fun to harass because he always just took it then let his sister help him up off the floor.

He can remember her scolding him, even as there were tears in her eyes.

It was always his worst habit.

He never fought back.

Because if he had fought back, Father would hurt the rest of his family.

She had told him that writing would only be in the case of an emergency, but John was feeling a pull of loneliness and couldn't help but tell her about his day in his block-print penmanship.

 

_Dear Harry,_

 

_How are you? I miss you a lot. Hope our Father is well?_

 

Tapping the pen lightly on his chin, he pauses before continuing on.

 

_Adelaide's is an impressive sight, I wish I could show you. Everything is so much bigger than our little farm town. It's ridiculous. I can hardly believe it, but I've already managed to make a friend. Her name is Summer, and I think you two would get along great._

_There's also someone else...._

 

Then he trails off, frowning. Should he explain his situation?

Should he write the name Sherlock Holmes on his paper?

 

Instead he lets that sentence go, continuing on.

 

_Make sure to take good care of yourself. I know the drinking habits get worse when you're living with him, but please remember I care about you. Move as soon as you can, and try not to fight too much._

_I love you._

 

_Your little brother,_

_John._

 

Closing his eyes, John can see the faint echo of dying sunlight behind his lids. It hurts to think that he can't be there to protect his sister.

Hurts to feel like he can't even help himself. Though the oak has provided a towering home for at least one night, it was bound to rain or snow at some time during the year. The uncertainty of his future did not sit well with him. His neck cricks painfully, and he shifts to look down at the glistening water below. It's so beautiful to watch it fade from blood red to a cool blue that he almost doesn't see the dark figure in a trench coat marching with purpose right towards the garden.

John crouches into hiding just in time as Sherlock stalks lithely through the rose-bushes, a cigarette in hand that glows with the night fast-approaching.

Hardly daring to breathe from above, the blonde teen watches as the dark figure picks his way along the stone paths, hoping to God it's too dark for those blue eyes to see into the branches of the oak.

 

Sherlock is rather obviously buzzed. If pressed John would have to say a mix of cocaine and some sort of lighter hallucinogen.

As he takes off his coat John catches a flash of needle points on the inside of his wrist as he crouches in front of the water, eyes dilated and fevered looking even in the dark. He's carrying with him a sort of case, which he sets down beside a stone angel as sits down in the long grass. At first the sound of his deep baritone makes John jump, fearing he's been discovered, but it's soon obvious that Sherlock is talking to himself.

Or rather, his reflection.

 

He stares at the watery surface of the lake like it holds all of life's answers, and John has to roll his eyes and suppress a small giggle at how enraptured that pale face is when staring into his own irises. His voice is brusque.

 

“It's me again.

Of course it's me.

We are the same person after all. That's not important.

I came because I have a problem.”

 

He steeples his fingers against his lips, watching as his reflection does the same. The same person, but apparently the youth doesn't recognize that while under the influence. Apparently in his drug-induced state his watery mirror says something, because he responds with such vigour that John wonders if he's always that passionate under his mask of cool.

 

“Of course I'm drugged! It's the only way to get you to come out. To reveal yourself. God knows I've tried before sober. Never works. There's too much noise when I'm clean. Too much noise..... Why did I come?”

 

He blinks incredulously, as if such a question is obvious. John is glad that Sherlock's hallucination seems to be asking the same questions he is, because he leans forward to hear the answer despite himself. The way Sherlock responds is not the way he expects. His voice is softer than it ever has been when addressed to another person. Somehow vulnerable.

 

“I came because you're the side of me that cares. That understands human emotions..... I'm having trouble. I think I've done something wrong, I'm getting the feeling I usually do when I've crossed some line..... but for the life of me I don't know what....”

 

Silence, in which John wonders in shock if Sherlock is somehow _counselling_ himself. It's fascinating despite the strangeness of it. He watches the young man's mouth narrow into a thin line.

 

“He deserved it!” The loud snap comes from his mouth in a burst, vehement.

“He just waltzes into my room, expecting sentiment. Expecting _friendship._ I don't have time for friendship. I don't even have time for this school and Mycroft knows it!”

 

John realizes with a rush of heat that Sherlock is talking about him. He swallows uncomfortably, unsure of how he feels about that.

 

When Sherlock speaks again, it's softer. More thoughtful.

“Yes... yes he does fascinate me... Though I can't say I know why. _Boring_ person really... Boring....”

 

In the dark, those eyes glimmer like twin jewels as he suddenly turns to look up at the sky. John, panicking for a moment as his irises lock madly for just a second with his freezes, hardly daring to move. He's certain he's been spotted.

Certain he's been caught.

 

Then, Sherlock's eyes drift past his face, and he yawns in a brief but somehow childlike display of exhaustion.

“You say I should apologize... but then what? It's not like I can be his friend..... Nobody can put up with me.”

 

The last part is so quiet, John has to nearly lean all the way out of his tree to hear.

 

There's the distinct sound of a stone being tossed into the water, Sherlock's reflection breaking into pieces indistinct and warped.

His shout is laced with something.

Something that pulls at John's chest.

The anger is like an eruption of fireworks.

 

“No! People only get hurt when I listen to you! I am _cold_ and I am _calculating_ and I will get rid of you! I'm tired of feeling so.... so.... _Human!_ ”

 

Standing, he tries to do the sort of graceful turn that he could normally perform without even thinking. Instead he falls, rolling onto his back so that John can see the stars, hugely reflected in his much too wide irises. Sherlock's pale blue eyes flutter closed for a moment, and his whisper is one of defeat.

“I'm tired. Tired of the noise in my head.”

 

John wonders what it must be like, to be so smart that it hurts physically. He wonders because the person before him is entirely crumpled. Like without the outer shell of defiance he has nothing.

 

There's a sound, almost like a whimper.

“God. Make it stop.”

His cry makes John's breath hitch.

 

Then, Sherlock Holmes rises wearily from the grass, but he's not the same man that could cut someone in two with just a look. John watches that strange, broken figure as it walks all the way back to the lonely cabin on the hill, unable to explain the gnawing in his gut.

He rolls onto his side, but doesn't sleep.

In that moment he pities those dark curls, that lonely smile.

Understands that he's seen something that he can't unsee. A side to Sherlock that he feels no one should have the right to know.

He feels like he's intruded, accidentally stepped on the deepest part of another human being.

As he drifts into uneasy dreams he has nightmares of when he was little.

Everything too big.

Too loud.

Too angry.

Running from his Father and hiding in the kitchen cupboard. The chemical smell of dishsoap beside him. The sink pipes dripping dankly.

His breath in his throat as he hears the stomping, heavy footsteps that could only mean pain.

And his tiny whisper that he remembers even to this day. The one that got him caught in the end.

The one that his Father had beaten him for.

 

“ _Please. Please make this stop.”_


	7. The Debts To Be Repaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is where things start getting a little friendlier between Sherlock and John, albeit they still aren't perfect. Also John begins feeling some guilt over not telling Summer what he knows about Irene... still. Such is high school :P Please keep up with the comments as they make me happy, and happiness equals faster updates!

John nearly falls out of the tree six times in the night, unable to stay still from nightmares. At one point it's only his quick reflexes that keep him from falling to an abrupt death, his arm straining to lift the rest of his body as it grips the branch in desperation. Scrambling back up to his roost with his blood pounding in his ears, he decides it would be safer not to sleep for the rest of the night.He'd much rather keel over from sleep deprivation than have to explain to the school nurse how he shattered every bone in his body.

 

Yet somehow, thinking is even worse.

Left alone to his thoughts, he's forced to consider the fact that maybe Sherlock had reasons for being angry all the time. That there may actually be a method, cold and severe as it is, to his madness. With that thought comes a surging of emotion, a vindictive irritation that refuses to settle.

 

_It's his own damn fault!_

 

As soon as John hears how those words sounds, he wishes he hadn't thought it. Sherlock had said the same thing about him.

That it was his fault.

This throwing of blame back and forth would get them nowhere, and though John personally felt he had less to apologize for, sometimes a person had to just suck it up and be the first one to make a move towards truce.

Really, both of them were acting like children. If Sherlock truly didn't know _how_ to apologize, then he was probably frustrated more at himself than at John.

His sharp eyes scan the garden below, where imprints of grass show where a head of dark curls had lain only a couple of hours before. Lying on his stomach so the water reflects in his sapphire eyes like orbs of light, he considers the riddle of the name Holmes long and hard before he notices the glint of metal coming from just under the rose bushes.

 

It takes him a second to realize it's the case that Sherlock had brought with him. He had obviously been too distracted to remember to bring it with him when he left. Curiosity piquing, it takes John all of two seconds to consider the consequences, then easily ignore them. Sliding down the oak's trunk with a quickly becoming practiced grace, he bounds over the the patch of soft earthy soil. It's damp with early morning dew, and in the dark John sees that even the box is probably worth more than anything he's ever owned in his life. He feels like touching it would be something that his ex-roomate would find offensive to say the least, but he can't help it as he drags it out into the open. There's no code or locks, only clasps, and John's audible intake of breath shows his shock as he flips open the little silver latches to reveal their contents.

 

There, lying mournfully inside the case without it's owner, is a violin.

 

Not anything like the dinky fiddle John once owned, the one with the rusted strings and crooked neck that his sister had bought at the thrift store with her meaningless allowance.

No.

This was a work of art.

 

Polished wood glistened an almost cherry red in the moonlight, forming a near perfect oblong figure eight for the body. The strings shone like spun ice in their holdings, all perfectly in tune and poised to make a beautiful song. Beside it lies a bow with horsehair so soft John runs his fingers along it, knowing technically he shouldn't.

Then he pictures Sherlock playing something like this, and he closes his eyes.

 

John knows that when the teen awakes, probably going through withdrawal from whatever he's been taking, that he'll be having a mild panic attack at the absence of such an instrument.

This wasn't just some object.

It was very obviously well looked after. It was something treasured.

 

At that moment the sun begins to turn the sky a brilliant pink, and John distinctly hears a loud but muffled shout coming all the way from the distant lodge at the edge of the school grounds. The fact that he can hear it gives hint to how loud it must be inside

_**221 B.** _

 

His laugh is slow, but it builds until there's tears in his eyes and his sides are shaking.

John was beginning to predict the actions of someone unpredictable.

 

****

However, all thoughts of resignation at being the first one to make a truce ends with what awaits him in philosophy.

He stares.

It can't be actually happening, but John can't deny what he's seeing before him.

He wonders if Armageddon has truly come, or if Sherlock remembers more of last night than John thought he would.

He thought it would never ever happen, that the dark-haired youth would never act so out of character.

Yet once again, Sherlock Holmes had thrown him for a loop.

 

There, lying perfectly stacked on his desk, are all of his textbooks.

They sit there with a kind of solitary order, as if daring him to disorganize their placement. On top of them, Harry's picture lies perched delicately, her smiling face greeting him as he walked down the aisles of the desks.

He stands so still at the sight of them that when Summer walks into the philosophy class she stops her usual skip and touches his shoulder, concerned.

 

“Something wrong? Oh look! Someone found the textbooks you lost!”

Her happy surprise is anything but what John feels.

 

He scrambles mentally for a moment or two, trying to remember the lie he'd made up quickly the other day when Summer had noticed his glaring lack of school supplies.

After a moment, his reply sounds lamely in his ears.

 

“Y-yeah. Guess I'm just lucky. Now I won't have to pay for replacements....”

 

The question of how Sherlock seemed to know which order his schedule was in was a mystery that John wasn't prepared to address. As he sat down, feeling like his legs had become jelly, he noticed the small note, written in an increasingly familiar handwriting.

 

_**I owed you for not telling Mycroft. We are now repaid.** _

 

Despite the clipped tone of the note, John can't help the ghost of a smile that touches his lips. Touching the lettering, he can tell that when it was written the hand had pressed down on every letter, as if it killed him to acknowledge any kind of faults of their own.

Every step forward it seemed was like pulling teeth. Still, he was gaining _some_ ground, inch by painful inch. Summer notices his silly grin, and arches an eyebrow in silent question. When he shakes his head in response she huffs, but he can tell she's not really angry.

She couldn't be if she tried, because as Lestrade walks into his classroom and signals for quiet, she leans in and tells him in a voice tingling with excitement. Dripping with wide-eyed bubbliness.

 

“Irene.... she _likes_ me.”

 

John almost dropped his pencil, surprise registering in every muscle of his body. His mouth is dry as he looks over at Summer's face, which is shining like the sun in utter affection. The kind of joy she emanates seems to fill him too, as if it's an infectious disease. However, it's not enough to quell the knot in his stomach of worry.

Personally, he had hoped Irene would brush her off and that would be that. He hoped he wouldn't have to be forced to recall the events from a few nights ago and wonder just how to go about telling his new friend that her possible girlfriend might be well.... just a little bit slutty.

He wonders quietly to himself if Irene is merely playing with Summer's honest heart, and the thought makes him want to clench his fists and spend a few hours at the school's shooting range until he burns the image of her kissing Sherlock out of his mind. However he can't bring himself to warn his friend of the wordless danger he feels she's putting herself into. If he tells her, that would be admitting that he's been sleeping in a tree the past two days, and he's not sure how she'll react to that. Guilt fills him as he knows he might very well watch his friend crash and burn without lifting a single hand to help her.

 

Summer, ever much too observant to things around her, notices his smile is a little sickly. Her own grin fades a little, but she misinterprets his lack of celebrating for jealousy. She puts a freckled arm on his shoulder as if to comfort him.

“Hey, come on. I'll still hang out with you even if we do start dating. Don't worry, I wouldn't abandon my farm-boy for the world. We misfits stick together, remember?”

 

She extends a hand in a fist-bump, and John without meeting her gaze returns it. A very mean little voice in the back of his mind is berating him, and he doesn't bother to crush it.

Sometimes, John hates the fact that he doesn't have more courage.

Hates the fact that he can stare into such a warm face and laugh off his worries and only that.

Worries.

Still, he vows to himself to have a private chat with miss Irene Adler later on.....

One that he would not be telling Summer about.

 

Also in the back of his mind was the issue of the violin, and how to go about returning it to it's rightful owner.

Somehow, he doesn't think Sherlock would appreciate having to be indebted again to him. He would have to return it anonymously then...... give it in a way that might keep this uneasy peace between them. Thinking for a moment, he gets an idea.

 

Though the thought of dealing with the elder Holmes was less than ideal.


	8. The Child Behind the Man And Dark Eyes

Those cold eyes don't appear to be at all surprised to see him as John sneaks into the chemistry classroom at lunch, gripping the violin case to his side tensely. As it is Mycroft is already speaking with another student, his tone deceptively calm. John however senses a growing anger at the pale student before him, something in the way the young man grips the handle of his umbrella. His voice is biting.

 

“Now, I hope we have an understanding of each other Jim?”

 

John doesn't like the ink-black eyes that seem to hold anything but understanding. The tall boy smirks as if the thought of compliance is something to be toyed with but not taken seriously. His entire posture, his every move is distinctly Sherlock-esque, but there's no hint of feeling behind those eyes.

When they lock onto his face, it takes all of John's will not to duck away.

The boy smiles at him then, sensing his fear despite the fact that those cobalt-blue eyes refuse to look back down. His voice is like a whispering menace that makes John's skin crawl.

 

“Ooh. The new kid's in trouble too? What's the matter? Didn't get your homework done?”

 

His sharp laugh his cut off by Mycroft's half-growl of irritation, and before he decides to use his umbrella for violence Jim winks and disappears behind the door. The weight that falls off of John's chest is immediate with his absence, and he has to struggle to keep his knees from buckling. Mycroft actually looks no better. It's obvious the young man is not enjoying his teaching position. Tired circles line his eyes, and there's a decided tremble in the way he lifts the cup of coffee to his lips and grimaces at it's taste. It occurs to John that he really doesn't know how old Mycroft is, there's an agelessness about him that makes him decidedly cut off from the rest of the world.

 

The elder Holmes looks at him with a mix of irritation and amusement, leaning forward so his chin rests on his hands.

“Good afternoon Mr. Watson. Is there something wrong?”

 

The calculating eyes sweep over his figure, pinpointing the case he still grips in his fingers and noting the rather dishevelled and haunted look John has about him. His eyes narrow a little, and his voice is a little more strained as he murmurs

“Sherlock hasn't been..... too difficult to handle?”

 

John begins to mumble his go-to phrase lately (It's all good, I'm fine...)  When Mycroft cuts him off with a sigh.

“Don't treat me like I'm some high school freshman John. I know my brother kicked you out and that you've been living in the school garden.”

 

The pale teen's ears turn a bright red, and he hastily begins to mutter some low apologies when the young man lifts a hand for silence. His mouth twitches with something almost akin to amusement.

“Don't. I should be the one to apologize. Originally, it was my plan to have you moved to another room if something like this should occur. Heaven knows I expected it on some level.”

 

The smile he flashes is not a happy one. John wonders just how many others Sherlock has pushed away or abandoned in an effort to remain alone. His jaw clenches tightly.

“However, I put it off because of one interesting fact....... you have yet to tell anyone, even Sherlock himself, about your current living arrangements.”

 

Mycroft's eyes narrow, and he stands so that his face is inches away from John's. Searching.

No thought for personal space at all, just like his younger brother.

Except where with Sherlock John feels a rush of heat, all that's in Mycroft's eyes is coolness.

Still, soothing, but still frightening.

 

“Why do you not want your parents involved in this John?”

 

His blonde head flinches, and that's all the older man needs to confirm it. John knows that Mycroft knows.

His heart pounds, and he's not sure where to look.

Suddenly the room is much too small, much too confining. Abruptly changing the subject, John all but flings the violin case down onto the table.

“I came to return this to it's rightful owner. Not play twenty questions.”

 

Glaring up at Mycroft, it takes everything in his power not to tremble. His words sound a lot surer than he feels.

“The past is the past. You'd do well not to dig too far into it.”

 

The man's eyebrow lifts in silent disbelief at the sight of John Watson, five foot seven and only a freshman putting so much threat into his words. It's not unlike looking at a puppy that snaps at a wolf, not even realizing how far out of his depth he is.

Mycroft's head tilts to the side, and John feels the silent warning like a sheet passed over him.

 

_Careful where you tread. I don't have to put up with this._

 

“Sherlock must be missing this. I will return it to him as soon as possible. _Anonymously_ of course. If he has any good inside of him though my brother will be able to put together the pieces.” He assures upon noticing the look of alarm passing the teen's face. John relaxes slowly, and he feels a sort of grudging respect for the man before him.

 

“I don't believe people are born with good. I believe it's earned through dealing with others. Your brother just hasn't met enough people yet. He's inexperienced, not evil.”

 

John smiles, and for a moment Mycroft looks taken aback. Then his face smooths over, and he clasps John's outstretched hand.

“Good day Mr. Watson. And perhaps through this exchange my brother will finally earn some of that good.”

 

****

 

It's funny, the sound of gunshots embedding themselves into targets is at times the most relaxing noise in the world to John. Something about the recoil, how it feels in his hands as swiftly but methodically he replaces the cartridge when it empties. He's a decent shot, and most of his bullets hit dead centre at the chest or head. Silencers on his ears, he watches the blast and thinks, half-laughing at Summer's weak attempts to even hit a target. They've both been at it for a few hours, the Phys. Ed teacher checking in on them occasionally. However he has his hands full with most of the other students, because if Summer is weak everyone else is positively dreadful. Most of the kids, used to a richer and softer life have never even held a gun before, let alone fired one.

For once, John's farm roots come in handy as again he empties another cartridge, his senses heightening as adrenaline begins to pool into his stomach. He used to go hunting every once in a while for deer out in the woods, and although the feel of a pistol is certainly different than a shotgun, it's really not that much different.

Soon, he's quite popular amongst the rest of the students. They grin and cheer him on, amazed at his accuracy.

 

John doesn't really hear them, instead he's back home in his forest, his land. Back in the peaceful quiet of the outdoors where there are no walls and no panic.

No worries that Mycroft will say something about his previous living experience.

No problems with Sherlock.

Nothing.

There is nothing in his mind at all.

 

Until he runs out of bullets.

 

Then silence falls, and he realizes that he's squeezing a trigger that has no hope of firing anything.

 

Then the sound of slow, sarcastic clapping from the doorway.

Everyone's head turns, and John closes his eyes and prays it's not who he thinks it is.

 

“Impressive.”

 

He almost refuses to set the pistol down as he turns to glare at Sherlock, jaw tensing. There's a certain tone in that voice that he's growing to know, one that can only mean another puzzle or game.

He stands lithely at the entrance of the Gym, and instead of the uniform as usual he wears that dark coat that drapes over his tall shoulders and ends at the knees. A soft blue scarf is wrapped about his throat, and his dark hair is wind-blown from running. John doesn't like at all how fevered the man's eyes are, or how without pause to consider the mud on his boots he stalks towards him.

 

Summer's eyes watch them with sparkling amusement, and she whispers and accusing

"I _knew_ it."

as the crowd of students parts like a red sea as the teacher strides forward. John gets the distinct impression both adult and student know each other well, and from the way Sherlock's upper lip curls he guesses it's not in a friendly way.

 

“Sherlock.” The teacher crosses his arms over his chest, looking downright intimidating. However the teen merely ignores his silent threat, strutting into the Gym without any hesitation. His tone is equally callous. For once John is just glad that someone seems to feel as tired and as stressed out as he does whenever a Holmes walks into the room.

“Clarke.”

 

“Don't you have any _classes_ to get to?” Mr. Clarke's voice is sharp and cranky, as if he was having memories of going through this several times before. He watches Sherlock pick up a pistol, twitching as if he wanted nothing more than to disarm the student but couldn't think of a legal way to do so. As it was the dark-curled boy was grinning from ear-to-ear, speaking to John as if he were an old friend and snorting at Anderon's comment.

“Please. I'm on a case.”

 

He claps his hand on John's shoulder, like an older brother looking after is younger.

Or rather, like he was making sure he had a captive audience. The grip is stronger than John expects, he can't break free as hard as he tries.

And he does try.

As savagely as he can anyway while being the subject of thirty-some eyes all staring at him in open awe and shock.

 

“I think a simple kind of weapon will be fine for myself, as I don't plan on shooting anyone. You however should probably take one of the silent ones. You'll be noisy enough as it is without gunfire making you even more obvious. Of course the case is non-violent enough in general....”

 

It takes John a moment to find his voice, and when he does, it comes out as a sort of half-groan. Grabbing Sherlock suddenly and viciously by the sleeve, he all but drags him to the corner of the Gym.

Someone wolf-whistles, and Summer promptly punches them hard in the shoulder.

 

 

“What are you _doing_ here?”

 

He hisses, their faces inches apart from one another as John tries to keep the snarl out of his voice. Sherlock stares into his eyes, and sees everything.

 

_Anger._

_Anger at me._

_Lack of sleep. Toast crumbs._

_Has been eating in the cafeteria lately._

_Dreadful food._

_Smells clean but no perfumes. Has been using cheap soap._

_Living simply._

_Soil._

_Bark._

_Living where......?_

 

He is snapped out of his reverie by the sharp smack that comes to his cheek, forced to acknowledge the glowering man looking at him.

“ _Stop that.”_

 

He hisses, and Sherlock realizes that he's been talking out loud again.

Curious.

He's never been hit by anyone before. The sensation is as startling as it is decidedly unpleasant.

 

The slap was not hard, rather it seemed more like a tap than an actual blow, but it seems to centre John too. He takes a deep breath and get a hold of his outrage, tightening his grip on Sherlock's coat collar so that he isn't tempted to hit him again. Looking away, his other hand pinches the bridge of his nose with exhaustion.

“You have five seconds to tell me why you're here you lunatic or God _help_ me-”

 

Looking as though he's still suffering from whiplash he straightens, eyes still burning with a passion that the blonde teen is beginning to associate with trouble. His grip is unshakable and unyielding as it wraps around John's shoulders, the smile unable to stay off his face.

“I'm here because I'm about to go on a _case._ I'm about to leave this school for a few bloody hours and I thought you might want to _come along_.”

 

John eyes him, rather dumbfounded. Could it be that Sherlock was actually trying to be..... _friendly?_

As silence stretches between that statement Sherlock seems to calm down just a little, noticing the rather chilly hesitation coming from the lightly tanned face before him.

He retreats a little and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like a good old fashioned sulk.

 

John's not sure what he's done, but it seems like he's offended him.

However his half horrified suspicions are put to an end as the man continues brusquely, releasing him and seeming to retreat a little back into his colder shell.

“I mean you're a good shot.... and.... Mycroft's suspicious I think.....and I need someone who knows medical things.... I read your file.... only out of idle curiosity understand....”

 

They're both surprised at the scoff that comes out of John's mouth at that weak lie, and for a moment the tall youth bristles like he's expecting some sort of retaliation. He's not expecting the weak laughter that comes from John. It fills him with a strange.... feeling deep in the back of his throat that Sherlock doesn't find entirely unpleasant.

 

Those cobalt blue eyes are still shining with mirth when he replies.

“You're asking _me_ to come along on an adventure? I thought you worked alone. Lived alone.”

 He doesn't respond, instead pulls John out of the Gym before he can even wave to Summer good-bye. The fever is back in his eyes again, and this time John can't help but feel absorbed in that all-consuming fascination.

Sherlock's baritone is filled with a joy he's never heard in him before, as he all but pulls his new reluctant companion down the halls. They pass Mycroft-

nearly bowl him over in their reckless running.

John shouts a nearly breathless apology over his shoulder even while imagining that expulsion will at least make his life quiet, but Sherlock just laughs, sliding down the stair rail like a little kid.

Utterly bouncing with the promise of freedom.

“We're going to learn about a murder!”

 

He sings as they run, and with his heart pounding in his ears and the cartilage piercing shining in the sun, Sherlock looks almost his age again.

Like a teenager.

A warm feeling fills John while looking at him, and he feels a sort of affection warming just between his shoulder blades.

He could get used to this.

Then he processes what Sherlock's just joyfully said and pales.

 

“Hold on...... _murder?_ ”


	9. To Hold A Hand In Public

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so just saying, this chapter has a little bit of romance between Summer and Irene. Don't like that kind of stuff, don't read. Nothing really smutty as that's coming later... but yeah... Enjoy!

 

Of course, Summer had known her friend had been a ruddy liar from the moment he'd opened his mouth.

 

Not many people ever suspected someone who was petite and blonde to be filled with an analyzing sort of intelligence, but that was in some ways what could make her so deadly. So when John had firmly denied knowing Sherlock Holmes, even while clenching his fists like he'd never wanted to hit something so badly in his life, Summer had privately come to her own conclusions.

That John Watson was indisputably, undeniably gay.

Or, at least gay for Sherlock.

Sherlock-sexual.

 

She reached this thought track even while sipping absently at the cup of soda Irene had gotten her, tasting the bubbles of ginger-ale falling back into her throat and creating that pleasant burning sensation that everyone knows but nobody speaks of. Her wrists ache from the fire arms practice, but not in a bad way. Sitting curled up delicately on the sofa, she marvels again at her new possible girlfriend's level of organization.

 

Though her room is not huge, the furniture is perfectly set for optimal space, the couch she's sitting on leaning up against a window so that Summer can feel the sun tickling the back of her neck. Soft rugs line the floor because everyone has noticed the chill the dorms get during the night, and her bare feet knead the contours of a crimson circular one in front of her. At the other end of the small living room is a smaller T.V, the kind that makes her think of cottages and camping.  There's a certain aura about the rooms of life, and Summer realizes that Irene is rich but not ridiculously rich. It's the sort of mind frame of someone who's aware of poverty, and is keeping a sharp track of her funds to avoid it at all costs.

She suspects that all the money the girl has earned has been hard-won, and that she started out with a modest enough life. This makes her happy, because Summer's in the same boat. Her family has money, as almost all the kids at _Adelaide's_ do, but she's no Holmes.

Paintings line the walls in an open and inviting way, and Summer's eyes keep drifting back and forth between the watercolours and the closed door where she knows Irene is changing out of her uniform. That thought makes Summer flush like a little girl, so she abruptly steers her thoughts away from that and back to John, biting down on her lip.

 

Yes.

Sherlock-sexual.

Right.

See, she had known John so far hadn't taken even the slightest interest in any of the other girls in he school. True, he had considered it with her, but had given up on it easily enough when she had revealed where her interest had lied. In truth it had been somewhat of a relief, as Summer had bad experience with friendships in general. Guys tended unfortunately to get angry when all chances of her sleeping with them went out the window. The thought makes her scowl in distaste. Still, their friendship so far had been balanced on a tenuous truce, a silent promise to look out for one another. The fact that John hadn't trusted her enough to tell her about whatever his relationship was with the infamous Holmes stung just a little.

She wondered if at one point they had been dating, and had broken up.

Except for the fact that Sherlock was known for never having a love life.

Or showing feelings really.

Her brother Nathan had once described him as a _machine,_ and from what she saw in how the dark youth had easily brushed off Mr. Anderson, Summer was inclined to agree. She wraps her arms about her knees, tucking her chin against her shins.

Yet he _had_ become interested when he spotted John.

 

Fascinated actually. Enraptured. From an outside view, it was like a light had gone off in those disconcertingly pale eyes and warmed them. Really, if she was pushed to admit it, John's eyes had taken on that glow too.

Like two puzzle pieces finally fitting together, she had seen in an instant what their relationship could turn into.

What it never would turn into, if she knew John at all.

Her farm boy was totally centred on school, almost manically. Leaning her head back, she lets her honey-dark curls tumble beyond the sofa and dangle inches from the ground. Her freckled face scrunches up in a sigh.

She wanted that light to continue filling John's eyes.

He had seemed so haunted when she first met him that it had nearly broken her heart to see him smile in a way he never had before, even if it was laced with irritation.

Though she isn't sure if in the end Sherlock will just disappear, leaving her friend in a broken pile.

 

He had done it before.

Whenever someone got to close to that cat-like figure, or too deeply involved.....

He broke them and left.

 

Though before they had all been girls, so maybe John would be different. That small hope fills her as Irene finally steps out of her bedroom, no longer wearing the stifling grey skirt and blouse. Her smile is shy as she pads barefoot into the living room, her outfit for a moment making all of Summer thought process stop dead.

All thoughts of John fly out the window as she mentally wonders how in the world did she manage be so lucky.

 

Irene's wearing dark black skinny jeans that come to rest at her waist, making Summer think of things like black velvet and soft kisses. The deep red bomber-type jacket that she's put on covers and yet shows off  the sequined top that has a simple sweetheart neckline, and her dark red hair now seems even richer as it cascades down her back in soft girls. She smiles at Summer's open oggling, and her giggle is slightly embarrassed but so cute that she has to grip the couch to keep from kissing her then and there. As it is, Summer's breathing is a little faster.

 

“You look.... um..... _amazing._ ”

Even though her murmur sounds lame in her own ears, Irene takes the compliment and makes it sound like the best thought out pick-up line ever.

“Really?! I wasn't sure.... it's not too much for our date?”

 

Cheeks bright red, Summer stands because she can't sit still any longer, approaching almost timidly. Yet there is nothing timid in the look she gives her. It's filled with heat that's  In the sunlight her hair catches like a halo, and then Irene is at a loss for words. Her deep blue eyes widen as she becomes lost in the green irises that take her in and seem to ensnare her, holding her perfectly still as she feels those delicate hands wrap around her waist. The warmth from them spreads along her back, every touch suddenly like electricity just under her skin. Irene's breath hitches as Summer leans forward, close enough that both of them can taste the other's scent.

 

_Mint....._

 

_Starbursts...._

 

There's the briefest hesitation, in which Irene sees Summer falter. Her eyes suddenly less sure as those pale blonde lashes flutter, her lips hover for just a moment. Stepping closer, she doesn't give her time to back down. Then the two are an interlocking knotwork of heat and emotion, stumbling backwards hastily as Irene pins Summer to the wall. The kiss becomes deeper, more manic as their hands move from hips to chest, chest to neck, fingers entwining. Summer can't breathe, she thinks she might pass out if it weren't for the stirring in her gut that tells her to keep going and the way that every muscle in her body screams for attention. Only the thought that the movie they want to see starts in a half hour gives her the willpower to pull away, gasping and struggling to stay standing. Her knees buckle a little, and Irene holds her up with a wicked little flame dancing behind her eyes.

Tongue running over her lips, Summer can taste the traces of her lipstick.

She thinks she may never want to leave this dorm again as her _girlfriend_ lightly touches her cheek, her expression feather-soft.

 

“I've wanted to do that since I met you.”

 

“ _God._ ” She manages to reply, heart finally slowing down a little as she takes Irene's hand in her own.

“Next time don't hesitate, just go ahead! Even if I wasn't totally mad about you already, I think I'd let you!”

 

The two girls laugh, and the sound bounces off the walls in a bubbling kind of way. Summer's never felt such a lightness in her chest, and she can scarcely stand to stay in just one place. She tries to memorize every line in those sparkling blue eyes, tries to store away the taste of having someone's lips crushed against her own. Pulling her along, she hopes her cheeks are not as vivid as they feel.

 

“I don't think I've ever felt this way about someone before.”

 

With her back turned, she misses the faint flash of guilt that flickers in Irene's irises before she masks it with a smile.

An image of the man in the dark coat and wicked blue-green eyes sends only nausea through her system.

The lie comes more easily to her mouth than it should as she lets herself be pulled along by the girl that miraculously, she's fallen head over heels for in only about a week.

“Me... me neither.”

 

The two embark out into the hall, chatting and giggling quietly as they embark outdoors. Not bothering to hide their affection because most people are already inside and immersed in their studies, they touch a lot more than they dare to during school hours. Summer wonders what it would be like to walk down a public hall holding her girlfriend's hand and grins. Maybe, this school wouldn't be as bad as her last ones. The ones that used to make fun of her and call her a _Dyke_ and _Whore_ just for choosing to love someone. The idea is freeing, and like a moth to a flame she can't draw away from Irene...... or as she was quickly becoming known in her own private thoughts

 

_The only one I would ever be brave enough to risk loving openly in high school._

 

They don't notice the boy with the deep dark eyes watching them from his own dorm window outside, a grin stretching over his face that is at once nasty as it is calculating. From behind the curtain, he speaks quietly with Sebastian who sits crouched on the floor of his Dorm.

“Looks like I've found some trouble to stir up.”

 

The thug's smile is as nasty as his leader's.

“Always you and your games Jim... One of these days someone's gonna catch you.”

 

Moriarity's laugh is cold to the bone as he lets the curtain fall, dark eyes in his lanky form making him appear like a malevolent spirit as he began to pace his room.

“ _Please_ Sebastian.... Even Mycroft himself knows he can't touch me.”

 

In the centre of his glass polished table, there's a bowl of fruit. Picking up an apple, he bites into it and savours the taste. The juice dribbles down his chin, and it's sweet and sour at the same time.

“After all.... his little brother still owes me money from the last batch of cocaine I gave him.”

 

The wicked smile dances in the shadows.

Sebastian laughs.

“And we all know you _always_ get your debts repaid.”


	10. Partners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo now to focus a little more on John and sherlock, since they are meant to be the main characters ;P This is where friendships start forming at least somewhat tentatively and memories start surfacing.... please comment if you have any critiques and let me know what you think of course! and thanks for the many wonderful comments already and views! I've broken the thousand hits mark! *does a little dance*

 

“We're here.”

 

At those words John startles from his musings as he stares out at the London skyline, making him jerk around to look at the rather impatient figure of his captor who sits beside him in the cab. He had been looking at the smudged clouds of white and deep grey, watching as they moved steadily eastwards across the dull sky over the arching skyscrapers and buildings. He had nearly forgotten what life was like in the city, and the loud noises and crowded streets they passed couldn't help but draw his attention.

Like an overly excited toddler he had all but been itching at the bit to finally see London, as he never got the chance to when he was at home. It had turned into a pulling match between him and Sherlock, one that he had easily won as he caught the taste of being free. His Father had never taken John nor Harry nor even his brother Robin into the city. Most of the time he had simply been just too drunk to do so, and John had never dared to ask him. As a young boy he often dreamt of what it would be like to see the clambering spires of tall structures, and to hear Big Ben boom at every hour. Now though his excitement is also edged with caution, and he struggles to conceal it as he can feel Sherlock's eyes watching him, mentally analyzing everything in silence.

Mycroft already knew about his childhood.

Lord knows he was not about to give the pale man across from him any more leverage than he already had. As it was he was driving to an unknown destination with him, and John had to bite his tongue to keep from asking for the billionth time just what did Sherlock mean when he spoke of a _case._

 

Where the cab had stopped as it turned out was right in front of an old apartment complex, lying just north of  Uxbridge. Of course, John didn't know this. He didn't really now the topography of any area besides his home and school, and he felt too proud to admit it to the man before him. He looks at those pale cheekbones rise in a grimace at the rain that's started to fall lazily from the sky, and silently prays to himself that the rain will stop by the time they get back. John has never liked being wet, and as he steps onto the cobblestone with every muscle crying out for movement after the long ride he feels like today he hates it more than usual. It drizzles down the back of his coat that's much too old and threadbare to be of any real use, and he shivers as he stalks after Sherlock's already moving form.

 

How it could be so miserable only a few miles over and so sunny back at _Adelaide's_ was something the young teen couldn't understand, and he struggles to keep up with the elusive black coat that weaves in and out of the crowds of people. And there are a lot of them.

In fact, John begins to notice the sound of sirens in the distance and flashing blue and red lights illuminate his eyes and momentarily stun him. He does his best not to seem like too much of a child as people glare at him as he pushes through, not holding the same level of decided authority that his new-found partner seems to emanate. Sherlock doesn't need to apologize, his glare is enough to quell any complaints the curious bystanders have. They visibly shrink away from him, as if one touch will be enough to turn them to stone.

Like a viper in a bird's nest.

 

Soon they approach what can only be called a bloodbath. It's been crossed off with bright yellow police tape and several policemen monitor the perimeter, but even John can't avoid seeing the blood spatters that seem to be ingrained in the apartment brick itself. The smell of it immediately hits his nostrils, and he gags as a flash of unwanted memory takes over.

 

_The wet crunching sound of bones breaking is the only thing John registers as he falls back unsteadily against the hallway wall, head slamming into the edge of a picture frame. The picture totters for a moment like an unbalanced cat leaning on it's haunches, then falls to the floor with a shatter. However he doesn't hear the crash it makes. All he can hear is the rushing pulse in his ears, the ringing of the punch his Father just pulled on him. There's a metallic taste in his mouth and he can't breathe without searing pain. Through blurred eyes he thinks he sees Harry screaming, trying to hold back Father's next hit. The sound of her hitting the wall is sickening as he flings her aside, so much bigger than her elven frame._

_John is only ten._

_He can't move._

_Can't even cry._

_There's blood in his mouth, in his eyes._

_He can't see past the red-_

 

“John.”

 

He snaps out of his memories like he's just been hit, yet Sherlock is almost five feet away from him, watching him with unreadable eyes. The collar of his coat hides the set of his mouth, but there's a distinct impression it's turned down in a slight frown of thinking. There's an unspoken question of why the blonde teen's face has turned so white, or his breathing so shallow. His hands ball into fists as he forces himself to calm down.

_Stop you big baby._

_The reason why you're so good at fixing people up is because of all that._

_That's the reason you're here._

 

Turning a slow red, John shakes his head to clear the haze of fear, coming to stand at Sherlock's side in silence as a man with a tough bull-necked figure and a decided limp parts from the sea of uniforms and comes towards them with an air of grim purpose. Quickly, he it's clear that he does not recognize the two teenagers intent, because he tries to shoo them away with a scowl and a thick Scottish accent.

“S'nough dawdling. Git lost! This ain't no place for youn'gins-”

 

His sentence trails off as he sees the murderous scowl that crosses Sherlock's features, and before John can stop him his eyes flick over the man and he begins to riddle him with proverbial bullets.

“First day on the job. Eager to please. However you're tired and cranky because you were forced to wake up three days in a row before sunrise to finish your training. Coffee addict, you're on your eighth cup. No wife, although you seem to be in an affair with at least three other women. Lots of free time I presume?”

 

The man turns a nasty shade of grey as he listens in rapt attention to the young man list off all of his flaws and faults loudly to the public. John knows from his expression and from personal experience that Sherlock is not missing a single thing. Trying to become invisible against the brick-work, he prays with a sudden surge of panic that he would not be taking his mad partner back to the school in a stretcher.

There was only so much he could explain away to his omnipresent brother.

 

Mercifully, there's a shout from behind them.

“That's enough Ivan! The kid's with me, so don't punch him out as annoying as he is.”

 

The man who comes forward is decidedly of Asian descent, but there's a mix of some Caucasian relatives in his jaw and general body structure. He has a small but fit body, and his grip is firm as he takes Sherlock's hand in his own and shakes it once. Even though he only reaches John's height, he carries with him the kind of easy gait of someone used to owning the land he walks on. His smile is all teeth and disarmingly cheery.

“Officer Tomoya Kyousuke, at your service. Your brother's told me a lot about you Mr. Holmes.”

 

His dark eyes then turn to Watson, and they narrow in morbid amusement at the way his face is just turning back to a normal colour.

“Though I wasn't informed of you having a partner. Good man, you haven't thrown up. At my first crime scene I was emptying everything I had eaten that week on the side of the road.”

 

Sherlock doesn't react to this, although deep inside the mask of cool John suspects he sees a snort in there somewhere. The idea that the man standing beside him has never been squeamish about blood doesn't really surprise him.

He was too much of a psychopath to react so normally.

 

John, clasping his hand smiles weakly.

“I'm John. John Watson.”

 

The Officer nods, leading them so John has to duck under the tape and Sherlock leap over.

“Good. Now that pleasantries are over with, we can begin.”

 

As Tomoya riddles off clues they've gathered about the crime scene, Sherlock's pale eyes flick across and up over the building, noticing details and lines and crevices that he makes note of and stores away for later. Two women fell from their rooms that evening, both at the same time and from the same floor. So far the police had listed it as a double suicide, but John could tell by watching the teen's face that he didn't believe that. His voice is low as he whispers to him, but he knows Sherlock hears.

 

“Is that just how you interact with people? Frighten them with facts about themselves until they back off and leave you alone?”

 

He doesn't look at him, but his reply is swift and devoid of emotion.

“He was being an idiot. Just because a mind is young doesn't mean it's stupid. I've met ten year olds with a greater brain capacity.”

 

John shakes his pale blonde head, trying to think of how he can make the teenager see that he was being an ass.

After thinking for a moment, he decided using tact would only irritate him.

He goes for blunt honesty instead.

 

“You were being a self-righteous ass y'know.”

Though it could easily have just been a facial twitch, he thinks he sees Sherlock Holmes fight off a small smile.

 

“Over here are the victims.” Tomoya continued on in his speech, oblivious or blissfully uncaring of their quiet exchange. He points to two glossy black body bags, both lying on the ground in a sort of lonely way. John feels the familiar pang of nausea as he imagines how close Harry had been that day to winding up shut away in such a bag, but he forces it down deep into his chest and stills his panic. His finger nails make pale lines in the palms of his hands as he clenches his knuckles tightly.

 

“Now mind you... this might be a little gruesome.”

The man cautions with a rather uncomfortable frown.

 

Surprising himself, John cracks a joke.

“Nothing is gruesome after you see what's in _this_ man's fridge.”

Jerking a thumb at his partner.

 

 

Sherlock puts on a pair of gloves and unzips the latch that holds the bag shut. There's the metallic sound of it coming undone, and then brief silence as John stares.

The woman's olive toned skin is frigid with death, and post-mortem ridgidness lines her shoulders and torso. At once she might have been rather pretty, her hair long and very, very dark. However now it's matted thickly by blood, and the entire left side of her face is indented from the fall. Her nose is broken, and crimson stains the middle of her simple pink and yellow striped shirt and edging her jeans. John looks at her face, eyes closed but still showing traces of her fear as she fell. It takes everything he has inside him not to look away.

But he doesn't.

Sherlock watches him, boring a hole into his chest as he does.

Challenging him.

Testing his resolve.

After a few moments, he nods.

 

“Tell me what you see.”

 

“What?”

 

“Just do it.”

 

So John does, listing off all the contusions, fractions and injuries. Every scrape, every bruise, every obvious moment of pain she had. When he finishes, he opens the other body bag and forces him to do the same thing. It's exactly the same, down to the letter.

Which makes Sherlock grin in such a way that is both disturbing as it is filled with life.

 

“Exactly. They're _too_ alike.”

 

Then he proceeds to tell Officer Tomoya that these two women never jumped at all. That in fact they sustained their injuries from the same unknown source.

“Then their bodies were flung out of the window, making it look like suicide.”

 

He confirms this by the indentation patterns on the ground, outlining how they would have been different if they had still been alive when they “jumped.”

John watches it all with open-mouthed amazement, all sickness forgotten as he  listens to the deductions made. Sherlock is a whirl of answers as he marks the bloodstains and labels the twisting bends on the balcony (only on one, they dumped them from the same room but tripped and bent the frame). It doesn't end until Tomoya forces him to stop, grinning from ear to ear.

He struggles to form coherent sentences as he thanks the teenager endlessly.

“Your brother is right. You're.... .you're....”

 

And then, John's voice speaks up, loud in the silence and breathless.

“You're _brilliant._ ”

 

For a moment, Sherlock looks at him unblinkingly, as if the compliment stops him dead. His mouth snaps shut, and his fists turn slack. There's a kind of hesitant uncertainty, as if he has no idea how to respond to praise. After a moment.... he huffs and turns away.

“A boring case really..... nothing too complicated.”

 

John can hear the happiness in his tone though. The silent pleasure in being complimented. He doesn't expect what Sherlock mutters almost too quietly for him to hear as he pulls him away. His grip carries with it a level of possessiveness.

However, the blonde-haired boy doesn't notice. He's still too busy marvelling at the tall figure leading him. If he could see Sherlock's face, he would notice the way his smile turns up almost in shy affection.

 

“I couldn't have done it so quickly without a partner....”

 

The warmth John feels in his face doesn't leave him for the rest of the car ride.

Partner.

The fact that he was useful to someone like Sherlock Holmes helped ease even his depression as he realized it had begun to pour rain outside. Lightning flashed in his eyes as he wondered if he would sleep at all tonight.......and if his poor backpack would survive up in the tree until he got home.....


	11. Listen To The Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo THANK YOU ALL FOR AMAZINGTASTIC COMMENTS AND KUDOS! <3 and happy easter, even if it's late ;P thanks so much for those dropping off notes on what I should edit because it makes my writing better, and sorry this is coming later on in the day. I've started Nanowrimo, so I may not be quite as frequent. But I will try to update as often as I can! Anywho.... here we go!

 

In the end, John's curiosity gets the better of him. He's been leaning forward inside the cab so his elbows are braced against his knees, a nagging feeling pulling just at the centre of his gut.

Beside him Sherlock has gone back into a semi-silent state, eyes drifting lazily over the scenery outside and yet failing to miss anything at the exact same time. Twice as they had waited for the cab he had tried to light up a cigarette, and twice John had scowled at him so harshly that the teen's mouth had turned down in a decided sulk and put the little packet back into his pocket.

Though John knew that the tall man could be doing far worse to his health, his on and off again cocaine addiction being in the forefront of his mind, it still bothered him intensely to see anyone damaging themselves in front of him. He hadn't been able to control Harry's drinking despite his best efforts, and he had been too little to remember his Mother so couldn't know for sure if he had tried to stop her own addictions to pain killers. Frankly he doubted at that age he even realized the addiction was there. It seemed everyone around him was determined to kill themselves in slow ways, and although Sherlock had never before shown symptoms of withdrawal, that didn't necessarily mean he didn't suffer from it.

He would be damned if the slow sort of agreement falling over him and Sherlock was going to fall apart over an argument over his smoking habits.

 

“Who killed the women? Do you know?”

 

For one annoying moment it seems like he's not going to bother to deign him with an answer. His pout still firmly in place, Sherlock twists the ring in his ear once in an outward expression of irritation. The little piece of silver shimmers in the light, and for a moment John finds himself distracted by the movement just a little. Long enough to blink and realize that the young detective (as he was beginning to be called in his mind) was speaking.

 

“Not my jurisdiction. Also not interesting. The whole point was to figure out _how_ not why John. The why is usually for boring reasons.”

He sighs audibly, the sounds leaving something to be desired. His mouth puckers up into another  pout. John's eyes can't help but narrow.

 

“No, you were _told_ by someone that it wasn't your jurisdiction. You were _told_ to mind your own business....” He guesses, and from Sherlock's faint sound of annoyance he supposes correctly.

 

When he speaks again, his voice is laced with bitter annoyance.

“Nobody takes me seriously because I'm eighteen and people are idiots. Despite the fact that I've solved most of the crimes in London and really all over Europe, they think having a _child_ on the report roster would take some of the Police's credibility away. As if I cared about that at all.”

It was obvious though that despite Sherlock's attitude of calm, he _did_ care very much. At school he was used to being given a certain level of respect, if only because Mycroft made sure that the teachers were aware of his little brother's brilliance as well as his overwhelming pig-headedness. Out in the city though, John was painfully aware that to an outsider they looked very much like two average teenagers, and thus were treated as such. People looked down on them, and though John was used to it as a fact of life, he knew in a flash of insight that it was something that truly irritated Sherlock. It made him want to scream and hit someone except that Sherlock Holmes would never do that. Instead he settles for lashing out at he nearest pedestrians, or in this case, John.

 

Abruptly, he shouts at the taxi driver to stop and pull over. Sherlock looks at him with one arched eyebrow, wondering why his partner's eyes were suddenly glinting with the beginnings of a plan. When John realizes he doesn't have the money to pay the man and begins to shift uncomfortably, the detective leans over with a sigh and a rolling of eyes and hands the driver a wad of bills.

 

“Honestly, you idiot. Think things through....”

 

But it sounded only half-hearted.

 

*****

 

“Explain to me again, how is this _fun_?”

 

Sherlock balances precariously on the ledge of a bridge, sending John's panic level sky-rocketing even as he did his best to ignore it and continue walking beside him. The rain was now pouring over both of them in rivulets, moulding John's pale hair to the side of his face and attempting to de-curl Sherlock's mop of locks. They seem to be the only one's out willing to brave the storm, two lone figures crossing a bridge with neither of them knowing exactly their destination. However, John so far can't keep the smile off of his face because this is the first time he's ever been in total control of the situation with Sherlock around, and he's not about to give anything away.

 

“Just listen to the rain Sherlock. I used to do this at home all the time. Just listen. It'll clear your head”

 

Grumbling, he claps his mouth shut, eyes flicking over the walls and pavement as both of them walk in silence. He resisted the urge to make a snappish comment about how easy John's mind would be to clear.

Forced to stop complaining, he occupies the never-ending stream that is his mind by cataloguing things about the teen beside him, taking into account everything he's learned.

_Military type._

_Honest._

_Hard-working._

_Stubborn._

_Stupidly stubborn._

_Is obviously trying to get me to stop thinking._

_Not working._

_Definitely not working._

_Something's missing in my summary of him._

_Always missing...._

 

His eyes narrow as they trail past John's face which is determinedly forced into a mask of smile, and then down to his torso and legs. A pulling in him makes him want to ask questions, to see how John Watson's mind worked and how the little cogs in his head ticked. They begin a sort of game between each other, tossing little asks and answers back and forth.

"Favourite television show?"

"Dr. Who."

"Hm. _Boring._ And completely unrealistic."

"Fine then. What's _your_ favourite show?"

"Pirates of the Caribbean."

"And that's more realistic?"

"Pirates _do_ actually exist John."

The casual banter continues back and forth, and though they're both soaked there's a kind of ease between them. Soon Sherlock is encouraged to start asking more personal things.

"Ever done drugs? No you haven't. Don't answer. I already know."

"I did drink occasionally in middle school actually. Dabbled a bit. Not for me though. Nice try Mr. Genius."

"Dabbling does not equal addiction."

"So according to you dabbling in _cocaine_ is fine?"

His pointed barb is ignored. Blue eyes flick over to him and the questions get more heated.

"You have a sister. Yet you seldom speak of her. From your agressiveness towards addictions I'm guessing.... alchoholic."

The tightening around John's jaw is the only answer he needs. When he replies it's a little more edged.

"Enough of this game Sherlock."

"Why? Why do you back off the moment things get interesting?"

"Some things should be left alone...."

When he says this, John stumbles just a little. It's a tiny thing, but pieces click together inside Sherlock's mind.

 

 That's when he stops so suddenly and leaps back onto the pavement that the blonde teen nearly runs straight into the middle of his chest.

Sherlock's voice is intense as he leans forward, staring into John's eyes. His tone is laced with triumph at deducing something.

 

 

“You used to have a limp.”

 

_There._

 

He sees the barest flicker of pain behind those cobalt-blue irises. John steps back immediately, distancing himself at an appropriate length before trying to steer around him. Sherlock uses his six foot tall frame to his advantage, blocking him like a barricade. In the rain his coat sticks about his legs in an irritating way, making him look if anything skinnier than he already did. John glared up at him, a wordless warning to drop it, but he wasn't having any of that. Now that he knew he had hit the spot he was looking for, Sherlock felt certain he could unlock something in John that nobody else saw.

A secret.

That word alone made his mind race with various possibilities. He had to know.

 

The rain pours down Watson's face as he refuses to answer the barrage of questions flung at him. In his excitement, Sherlock's voice raises.

“Old sports injury? No you don't have the body of someone who plays anything at a professional level, and your health records which I've read state that you haven't had any major surgery. Therefore an accident must have happened in your childhood at some point-”

 

“It was no fucking accident.”

 

John spits out the words before he can stop them so hard that it slaps those high cheekbones across the face, fingernails digging hard into his palms until he felt physical pain squirm over him. He's stopped smiling, and he avoids the gaze that seems to bore into the top of his head as he fights to gain control. Overhead, thunder booms ominously, but John doesn't seem to hear it. His breathing's picked up to a harsh gasp, and Sherlock can see the minuscule tremor that ripples through his shoulders.

_Fear._

_Afraid._

_Run._

_Stay._

_Don't you dare back down!_

_Run...._

 

All of these emotions, shifting through the man before him almost too quickly for even him to pick up. The rain pours down on them in silence, and Sherlock's baritone is feather-soft.

“John-”

 

His hand reaches out instinctively to touch his shoulder, but his partner flinches like it's a blow waiting to land on him. Eyes flashing, he pins the six foot tall teen in place with a look of such anger and visceral cold that he seems to tower over him despite the height difference for just a second.

 

“ _Don't._ ”

 

The noise that comes from him is twisted and cracked, and he swallows spastically before he speaks again. There's a fantastic flash of lightning that makes the detective blink, and when he does John's brushed past his figure and is stalking away. His voice is eerily dead, like he's not actually paying attention to his words anymore.

“Just.... Don't Sherlock.”

 

For the first time, Those eyes that constantly shift colour soften just a little in guilt and silent panic.

He's never seen someone become so hollow so quickly before, at least not by just mentioning a wound. The only time he's seen a body turn so listless like this was because of drugs, and not anything psychological. Though he would never admit it, it was alarming enough to stop being fascinating. Sherlock just wanted it to stop.

He didn't _want_ to solve why or how.

He just wanted to never see that cold emptiness in someone's eyes ever again.

Not in someone like John.

Without a word he follows, knowing he should finish where his thoughts lead and demanding instead they freeze over and halt. All thoughts on John Watson stop. Like they're too frigid to move forward. Sherlock shuts his mind palace, and refuses to enter it.

He fights curiosity with worry.

They spend the rest of the walk in silence, and closing his eyes John thinks he might actually hear the rain hidden somewhere deep inside the screaming in his head. However the cries are much too loud for him to enjoy it as thunder roars above them in a full rage, and Sherlock pulls his numb body around so they can call a cab.

He doesn't care that he's checked out of his own mind for a little while, in fact he welcomes it. He can hear that deep baritone rumbling out orders to the cab driver, tone as soft as the rain. He doesn't see Sherlock though.

Instead he sees his own memories.

He doesn't notice when the detective pulls him in from the rain into the cab, or when he asks him questions and frowns worriedly when he gets no real response. John tries to respond, but he feels like he's somewhere very far away.

He hasn't checked out before in a very long time.

It used to be a way not to feel pain when his Father beat him.

Now though his body was doing it out of it's own accord, and if John weren't so lost he would be frightened of what it meant.

 

There's a tentative hand on the top of his forehead, brushing by and checking his temperature. In his state he wonders if it's just Harry worrying over him again. He tries to mumble he's all right. Instead his eyes slide closed.

Sherlock watches the youth fall asleep against him, shuddering involuntarily at how overly warm it feels to have another human within physical contact. The heat is almost too intense, but he can't help but draw John closer as he lets out a tiny whimper of unbridled fear. The detective runs through his mind, and decides it to be some sort of manifestation of PTSD. From what he couldn't be sure, but he was beginning to suspect there was a lot more than meets the eyes with John Watson. Much more than he had originally given him credit for.

As the rain falls down in rivulets and Sherlock begins to dry clammily in the cab, he looks at the pale and haunted face that sleeps beside him.

Unexpectedly, and on a whim he tugs lightly at the collar of John's shirt. Just slightly, and just on a pulling feeling in the centre of his gut.

What he sees makes his other hand clench so tightly that it's only overlooked because of the haze of red that inexplicably fills Sherlock's vision.

Scars line every inch of John's shoulders, running down his back in wicked pink-white stripes. Looking like a game of X's and O's without O's, they lace every inch of his arms in almost delicate destruction. Carving the flesh, leaving it looking mottled and bumpy like a map.

The teenager shivers then, and Sherlock closes his eyes and thinks tightly through the white-hot feeling that he can taste on his tongue.

He should be considering calling Child Services, or perhaps even some sort of Human Rights group. Mycroft at least would be preferable. Instead he cards his fingers through his hair and swears as loudly as he can without stirring the boy beside him, voice shaking towards the end.

That was the moment he realized he was beginning to consider John as a friend.

 

It was also the moment he realized that he would not be telling anyone anything, or John Watson would never forgive him as long as he lived.


	12. Broken Notes Of a Violin

 

“ _John. Wake up. John!”_

 

_Everything hurts too much to move. Isn't he awake?_

_John wonders._

_Sleep didn't usually hurt this much......_

_He can't identify the voice, but it's growing louder by his ear. He thinks maybe he can feel their breath, pressing just beside his neck._

“ _John please. Please wake up.”_

 

_The little boy tries to, his pale eyelashes fluttering weakly. He can feel his cheek pressed against the cool hardness of the floor of his home. John doesn't want to. It hurts too much._

_That's when he knows the voice, the one that's steadily climbing up into a sob._

 

“ _Harry....”_

 

“ _John!”_

 

_He looks up into her teary-eyed face hovering over him, blinking as he feels the little droplets hit his cheeks._

_Warm._

_Salty._

_Scary._

_His big sister shouldn't be crying. She only cried when she was hurt._

_John tries to lift his arm, and discovers only searing pain that makes him cry out and thrash. She holds him down, even though he fights like a wild animal._

 

“ _John stop!”_

 

_Frightened, heart pounding, he looks into his sister's grey eyes. Afraid to ask. Afraid to know._

“ _What happened? What did he do?”_

 

“ _We need to take you to a doctor-”_

 

_**“What did he do Harry?!”** _

 

_Silence._

_She covers her mouth and breaths shallowly, wiping at her eyes. John has never seen her so scared._

_Or so undone._

_When she speaks, it's emotionless and dead._

_Her own way of checking out, removing herself from the situation._

 

“ _He was beating Robin with a crowbar. Locked me in the shed...... you stopped him, told Robin to run.... John....”_

 

_Her voice breaks, and it sounds tiny as she balls her fists in his shirt. Her entire body sways as if it's connected to a pendulum. The pain is too great, and the little boy weaves in and out of consciousness. Lines blurring to sharp and indistinct every other second._

“ _Robin.... he ran into the road.... He's been hit by a car..... There was nothing I could.... you could.....”_

 

_Harry doesn't continue. She knows her little brother isn't listening any more._

_That was the first time he ever locked himself up in his own mind._

_John wasn't prepared to deal with that pain._

_He never would be._

_If he ever tried to he'd die._

_Eyes empty, Harry cries over him, mourning the loss of not only one brother, but two._

_She was never the same._

 

_It rained that day._

_Since then, rain was the only thing that could ever bring John to silence his mind......_

 

_Don't think....._

_Don't think....._

 

*****

 

“John. Wake up. John.” 

 

Sherlock Holmes is not usually one to become worried. However he's forced to admit that he's becoming so as the night drags on and the person he's dragged inside of his room shows no sign of stirring ever again. In fact, he's sure he's seen corpses with a more likely chance of moving again than the pale figure staring fixedly at his lap like it's the most interesting thing in the world. Like a robot, John moved only when ordered to, following Sherlock from the cab and towards _**221 B**_ without comment or snide complaint. His eyes glassily watched his own feet, and without a word he had situated himself in the corner of the bed that would've been his if he lived here.

 

_Which he doesn't. He doesn't live here and I've made that clear, yet I've invited him here myself....He should be crowing with pride by now, should be teasing me endlessly.... Come on John, where's all that fascinating iron in your backbone gone?_

 

The man almost wished it.

Begged for some kind of retaliation as he took out his violin and made a show of scraping his bow painfully across the strings. John didn't react, only stared at the glimmer on the wall the reflection of the lights made in the bathroom mirror across the hall.

At least then he'd have a sign that the teen before him was alive, some sense other than his beating pulse and shallow breath. Standing with his instrument gently tucked under his chin, he plucked at a few notes distractedly while thinking through the complicated emotions that were somehow surfacing through his usual mask of ice.

Somehow John had inexplicably gotten him to emote openly, a struggling experience to begin with. He had all but snarled at the cab driver to pick up the pace, and when the few dawdling students who were either too studious or too lazy to go out and have a good weekend stared at John's unresponsive form, Sherlock had acted like a physical wall of protection.

 

Somehow, the sight of those scars had made him taste a new kind of rage and possessiveness that Sherlock thought he only had for objects and books. He had once almost attacked Mycroft for burning his favourite set of encyclopedias. However he had never even raised his voice at someone over another human being. Not the day his Mother had wound up in the hospital, hip broken from a careless butler leaving a wet spot on the floor, Nor the time when Jim had once beaten up another kid because he refused outright to make his payments.

No.

He played a few soft notes, half-wondering if John even realized music was playing. He wasn't sure what he was hearing or seeing, but privately Sherlock doubted it was actually what was before him.

He doesn't bother to acknowledge the fact that comes to him suddenly. That somehow he knows it was John who had returned his violin to him. Even now his fingers itch for a shoot up of drugs, but he doesn't dare. Not when those pale blue eyes stare at him and seem so lost even while being so accusing.

It's like even though John isn't there, his presence still remains.

The violin makes a long, mournful note as he draws the bow across it.

The room itself seemed to be almost too warm with another person in it, but he stops playing for a moment to put a blanket firmly around John's thin shoulders anyway.

He doesn't thank him, only stares at him blandly.

He doesn't let him touch him. Instead he flinches and whimpers and the noise makes Sherlock want to throw something.

Instead he shrinks away from the emptiness in that single look.

 

Shock blankets.

He had never understood why they were necessary, but now he concluded it was because people felt a need to keep others _warm_ when they were worried about them.

 

Briefly, he wonders if Mycroft's ever been worried over someone like this before. The idea of it sends vague irritation coursing through him. Catching that energy, his fingers begin to play the intro to _Fiddler On The Roof._

 

The tune seems to rouse John just slightly. His chin lifts to the slightest degree. That's all the incentive Sherlock needs to continue playing. Though his friend doesn't speak to him for the rest of the night, somehow the man knows even as he plucks string after string that he's listening. Silently hearing.

And all things considering, that was all Sherlock could really dare to ask for.


	13. Partners?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this one is so short. I'm currently on the move and I'm going to a funeral for an uncle I was very, very close with. I apologize, but right now this is the best I can do... :( I'm just really sad right now...

Sometime in the night, John Watson gets up and leaves. Sherlock, awake and reading silently from a rather heavy tome about dissection, makes no move to stop him. He doesn't have to because there's a silent agreement between them that neither of them knew had been created until now. They did not speak about each other's problems. They did not question when the other broke down, or acted out, so long as it wasn't directly dangerous to their health. In truth the detective had noticed this kind of trend with John, that so long as he didn't shoot up or smoke in front of him, he only gave gentle barbs about his habits. Until now, Sherlock hadn't thought John had any real issues, but he wasn't about to change the way things had been before. Except for one thing.

 

John stares transfixedly at the shining silver key that hangs on the hook beside the front door, eyeing it with suspicion and half-believing it wasn't really there. He felt unbalanced and raw, like he had cried for a long time. Which was ridiculous because he hadn't shed a single tear and wouldn't. At least, not in front of anyone. Looking at the little glinting key, no bigger than a jigsaw puzzle piece, he felt his throat close unexpectedly tightly.

Without turning around, he speaks.

 

“Why?”

 

Sherlock's voice is even. Logical.

Typical.

“I owe you. It's an experiment.”

 

“Owe me for what?”

 

He sets down the book, steeping his fingers against his lips. They are perfectly bowed, pursed and pouting.

“For..... _trusting_ me enough to go on a case with me and be my partner.... I _do_ assume we can call ourselves partners now?”

 

The question dangles in the air, as if it dares to be challenged.

However, John just smiles a very small, very tired grin.

 

“We'll see.”

 

Sherlock knows he's lying. He knows that John is merely trying to piss him off.

For once he doesn't care. He just breaks out into a wide smile and hops out of his chair.

"Excellent. Hopefully Mycroft will have another case before I get too _bored._ "

"Boredom doesn't seem to suit you. I think I should be afraid if you get too restless."

"My brother does. Last time I broke into an Opium Den and deduced all the drug runners even while participating."

His smile is positively wicked.

"They couldn't track me for _days_."

John's laughter fills the cabin, and he leaves the room with a low murmur.

"You git."

Sherlock responds by tweaking his violin, ignoring the burning feeling in his chest when he realizes that his new partner can laugh so easily.

"Don't be mistaken John. I don't have friends."

His sharp tone makes the tanned teen roll his eyes and frown darkly.

"Yes, yes... one step at a time. I know."

Closing the door with a sharp slam, he misses the other half of Sherlock's sentence. His whisper is left to the emptiness of the cabin, but somehow it seems infinitely less lonely.

"I just have one."

Outside, John hears the beginnings of Beethoven's ninth symphony thrumming out on the violin. He might have to hide that thing occasionally, he muses to himself.

Well.... at least at _night._


	14. A Deal With A Demon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is my way of apologizing for how crappy the last chapter was. This one's longer than usual, and has violence! :D
> 
> WARNING: there's some suggestion towards non/con stuff brought up, and all in all the later part of the chapter is dark and a little graphic. Just a heads up. this is where moriarty begins to play.
> 
> Thank you to all of those who prayed for my uncle and comforted me :( even if you're not very religious, I surprisingly (considering I'm queer and fairly open about it) am and it means the world to me. thank you all SO much. <3

 

From that point on, things begin to blur rather quickly at school. John wasn't entirely sure what happened, but it was like Sherlock suddenly wormed his way into getting permission for him to skip almost any class at the tip of a hat. If he wasn't such a hard working student by sheer instinct, his grades would be abysmal. It felt like no matter where he turned he saw the increasingly familiar dark curls he was beginning to associate with danger, and it made his pulse speed to think of what new case Sherlock had.  They never spoke of his breakdown, and he hadn't had one since. That night he had sent his letter to Harry, but as of yet there had still been no reply.

He tried not to let that worry him.

As it was the other most distracting thing in his mind was the increasingly cold weather, and Summer's utter infatuation with her girlfriend.

 

Snow dusts the top of her blonde curls as she holds Irene's red-gloved hand out in the courtyard, smiling widely enough that John can see how happy she is even from the window of the cafeteria. Since their pairing together they had been growing increasingly comfortable being together in public, and most of the school had begun to catalogue them as the “token couple” in their minds. Most of the girls thought it was downright adorable how sweet they were around each other, and even the guys after they got over the fact that neither of them were up for a threesome conceded that they were a deadly duo. Summer was quick with her sarcasm, but Irene calmed her and sweetened her sharpness. On the other hand Summer illuminated Irene's somewhat chilly personality, and made her act like a little girl instead of  like a high school temptress.

The two throw snow balls at each other and laugh even though the chill must be biting, and a small part of John wishes he could join them. Instead his mechanical pencil against his lips and sighs in frustration, staring angrily at the Philosophy question Mr. Lestrade gave them yesterday. It's confusing, he feels like he should agree with the statement, but if he does he knows he'll be losing some points for not arguing against it. Lestrade loves it when students argue, it makes his job more interesting and he rewards it if you can back your points up with solid evidence. He must have been focusing harder than he realized because the sudden thump of schoolbooks sliding over beside him causes him to jump. Sherlock, seeming out of breath and uncharacteristically excited, seats himself and doesn't bother to greet him before he launches into speaking.

 

“There's a new case. An _interesting_ one.”

The way he says interesting is the way John would describe Christmas. Or perhaps sex.

Looking at him dubiously, he cards a hand through his blonde hair so it spikes up all scruffily. Sherlock focuses on the little tufts for a split second, then his eyes return to John's face. It's scrunched up in annoyance.

“Sherlock I have to _study._ ”

 

The way his friend sniffs is all John needs to know Sherlock's opinion on studying.

“ _Boring._ Why would you want to do _anything_ so impossibly dull.”

 

“We can't all be geniuses.” He snaps back, grinning at the way the Detective's pout is beginning to show at the corners of his mouth. With the snow his partner has become increasingly restless, John forced to wake up at all hours of the night to crappy scales on his violin. It seemed Sherlock half the time didn't even know how to play his instrument, yet John knew that it only stemmed from boredom. Infinite boredom.

He also knew from terrifying experience what boredom could lead to in Sherlock's case.

The first week he had let it go for too long and had woken up to him shooting holes in the wall with a shotgun.

He had yet to figure out where he had gotten the weapon from in the first place.

 

As it was Sherlock's lanky form all but hovered over him, looking at the philosophical quote critically with one half-bemused eye. John can feel his breath on the back of his neck. It tickles, but in a pleasant way. Rumbling baritone obviously annoyed, he stabs at the textbook with one finger like the whole thing is entirely offensive.

“Pointless. The question is a matter of opinion, not fact. Philosophy shouldn't even be considered a course I swear...”

 

“You could always teach it.” John laughed, eyebrows rising in a smirk.

“Then again you'd probably wind up sending a student back home crying because you'd be so ruthlessly factual about everything.”

 

He glares stiffly, prickling at his friend's teasing tone.

“Facts are facts John. Opinions are just useless and incorrect perspectives on cold hard evidence.”

 

Sighing, the boy looks at him with an expression filled with hopelessness.

“I wish I could live inside that brain of yours. Where everything is black and white.”

 

Sherlock frowns, but doesn't comment. Jiggling his knee absently as he waits with growing impatience for John to finish his homework, he doesn't bother to voice his thoughts.

_Not everything._

_I don't view you in black and white._

_In fact you're quite a grey area._

 

Acknowledgement of this only makes his scowl deeper. Sherlock Holmes wonders to himself if he's finally gone mad or if he's just going through yet another withdrawal symptom.

John had made him quit.

Cold turkey.

No if ands or buts.

 

So far, aside from being ludicrously bored and the occasional twitch in his hand, there hadn't been any major issues. He wore nicotine patches more than anything, and long sleeves so John wouldn't see just how many coated his arms and chest and legs. He knew eventually the breaking point would come, and Sherlock was privately hoping he could hold out until a day when John went away or was sick.

He wanted the buzz to get high.... but an unpleasant pull in his stomach happened whenever he pictured John's disappointed face.

So he would play this waiting game.

Play it and confidently sneak past his new guard.

John would never have to know.

He could and would have both. Sherlock felt confident he could keep his friend and cocaine. After all, what good was being a genius if you weren't able to be actively cleverer than the people around you?

All that he needed now was to get his hands on some money for Jim.....

 

****

 

Irene was breathless, and she swore she could feel herself melting into nothing but a puddle of warmth despite the chill in her cheek and nose. Summer's lips were pressed against hers, pressing deeply and probing, and heat crawls up her spine and settles deep into her chest as she kisses her back. They had wandered past the courtyard, hand-in-hand and laughing like they were on honey-moon time telling stupid jokes and  countering with quick remarks. The snow was beautiful, Summer had never seen snow before since she had grown up in L.A. Squealing like a toddler she had dragged her girlfriend outside for the break, swiftly learning to throw snowballs with increasingly deadly accuracy. It made her laugh to see Summer so excited, like a hyper pixie she fluttered about the school yard and fell onto her back, making snow angels and ignoring the state of her uniform under her jacket.

Her simple, shining joy sometimes made Irene forget that her life wasn't supposed to be like this.

That she wasn't supposed to be so lucky as to have someone so genuinely _good_ about her.

She stooped to help her girlfriend up from the snow, and then she was being pulled down and wrapped in an iron embrace.

Kissing and both of them making up stupid excuses about why it would be unwise to strip in the snow, the two don't even realize they've wandered so far that a solitary oak tree looms above them, hanging over a lake that has frozen solid into a single reflective mirror.

Instead Irene feels the gaze of someone she'd rather forget as she freezes under Summer's touch, mouth parted slightly as fear drops into her belly.

Noticing her abrupt halt, her girlfriend parts from her slightly, green eyes round and confused.

The snow suddenly feels colder than it already did before.

 

“Something wrong hon?”

 

Quickly, Irene arranges her expression into a mask of false contentment, smiling widely up at Summer. She presses a swift kiss to her cheek, sitting up and breaking gently away from her touch.

“I just realized I forgot my scarf back at my dorm. My neck's just cold is all.”

 

Frowning a little, Summer stands. Her lime green coat stands out like a beacon, and she shoves one hand into her pocket even while helping Irene up. It's only now she realizes how cold it is, and how flushed her girlfriend seems to be. Taking her hand, she feels it's cool as ice.

 

“I'll go get it. _Don't_ complain. I've got to grab an extra pair of mitts anyway.” Freckled face curling up into the smile that Irene's come to adore so much, she winks and gives her a quick squeeze before taking off.

 

“Thanks sweetheart!” She can't help but call after her, tucking a lock of deep red hair back from her face. She watches as Summer's boots make crunching imprints in the snow, adding to the ones they've already made. As she's running she turns about, flashing her a huge grin. Cupping a hand about her mouth, she shouts across the yard.

 

“I love it when you call me that you know!”

 

Irene waves for as long as she sees her figure, trying to quell the pain inside her chest. Her false smile is still on her face when the shadow appears from around the oak, coming towards her jovially.

When she hears his voice her smile is replaced with a gaze of ice.

 

“Nice acting skills. ' _sweetheart_ '. Now that's cute. Tell me, when did you become so... domestic?”

 

“Fuck off Jim.” Irene murmurs without hesitation, turning to glare at the lanky youth that grins lazily against the oak's trunk. His long coat is as dark as his jeans, the only splash of colour the deep red scarf about his neck. The man regards her with a Chesire-cat sort of smile, eyes not reflecting a single ounce of light in their pupils.

 

“Now, now. Is that any way to talk to an old friend?”

 

When he speaks she shivers physically, and Irene swears she's going to be sick.

 

“We are not friends.” She says flatly, and at that Jim chuckles and comes closer so she can smell the spice in his cologne. Slow and sinuous, his breath is right by her ear. Irene wants to run, to scream in his face and punch and kick, but she can't.

It's like his gaze holds her down.

Like a spider and a fly.

 

“No... we're not are we? More like.... _fuck_ buddies.”

 

He whispers the word, but Irene flinches like she's been slapped. Her voice is loud as she snaps, whirling on him and snarling directly into his face so spit flies onto his cheek.

“Shut the _fuck_ up! I'm not your toy or your whore any more and you can't-”

 

Her voice cuts off as a slap sings through the air, landing on her face and taking her breath away. Before she can think she's lying in the snow, him on top of her and breathing right against her neck. His laugh is cruel as she sobs, squirming. He's too heavy, like a weight crushing her ribcage.

“Isn't this how it always is though Irene? At first your always such a prude, but get the right _things_ flowing in your bloodstream and you spread your legs for anyone....”

 

Roughly, he bites into her collarbone, chuckling darkly as she hits him.

“I hate you!”

She screams into his face, tears welling in her eyes. She tries to fight the burning in her throat, not wanting to break down in front of this man who's blackmailed her and tormented her.

“I hate you, I hate you! I wish I had never met you!”

 

Sitting on top of her, Jim clucks disappointedly as if she's just been impolite at a dinner party.

“No need to get tetchy my dear. I'm aware you paid your dues in full for all the slutty little drugs you used last year. What's more you paid double to ensure your little secrets stayed in the dark. I'm even aware you're trying to make a good _name_ for yourself, and that you actually think you've found _love._ However, here's the thing-”

 

Sliding off of her, he roughly pulls her to his chest as pins her against the tree. Breath knocked out of her, Irene can't speak as he wraps his nimble fingers almost lovingly around her throat. Frozen, crying, she stares at him with wide and terrified eyes.

Jim's no longer smiling.

“One of my clients has been dodging payment recently. One Sherlock Holmes. In fact he hasn't been ordering anything new at all, and that's troublesome. After _all_ -”

 

He caresses the cheek he had slapped earlier, enjoying the way it made her cry harder in silence.

“Mr. Mycroft or King-of-the-mountain-hey-you-I've-got-an-umbrella won't turn and look the other way when confronted with my crimes if I no longer have a noose wrapped around his baby brother's throat. How do you think your little girl would react, if she knew how many guys you've 'loved' before her? Do you think she could ever love the _real_ you when she's so stupidly pure?”

 

In response, she spits in his face. The drop of saliva hits his face, sliding down his cheek. For a moment, Irene feels a surge of triumph as with as much venom she can muster she growls something Jim once muttered to her, long ago.

“Even a demon loves the light, though it burns them.”

 

The grin returns, fingers tightening about Irene's jugular. She wants to fight, but she can't look away. The edges of her vision begins to go dark. Only a whimper sounds from her when he roughly presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Find out why my little detective has suddenly decided to go clean. If you do, your little dyke of a girlfriend won't find out about your rather promiscuous start in high school.”

 

He unleashes his grip on her, throwing her into the snow. Irene's red hair makes a wave on the clear white pile, creating a veil as she coughed uselessly and sobbed against the cold. From behind her, she can see Jim's figure retreating out of the corner of her eye. His voice lingers, digging into her brain and echoing in her thoughts.

“You have a month. If you fail.... then you'll wish you'd stayed a coke-head and never met your little ray of sunshine named Summer.... I've kept the more negative views on your relationship at bay... However they could turn on me like rabid dogs if I let my leash slip....”

 

His cackle fills the girl with dread as she stares numbly into the snow bank, hating how easily she lies there, cowed.

She would do it.

 

She was already prepared to ruin someone else's life. The thought makes her gag. The darkness she remembers of being so heavily drugged all the time. The blackouts. The uncertainty. The pain of months of withdrawal in which she had tried to kill herself repeatedly.

All for a girl?

 

Sometime later, Summer comes running back. Jim is long gone, and Irene is smiling at her, one lock of hair covering the cheek that was hit. Falling into the girl's embrace, she smells Summer's hair, her sweetness. Inhaling deeply, Irene thinks she would die happy if she drowned in that scent.

Yes.

 

All for a girl.


	15. Starry Eyed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is where feelings come into play a little. Annoying buggers aren't they? Still, Sherlock's starting to understand that John brings up lots of feelings in him he doesn't quite know how to handle.

The case as it turns out when John is finally finished with his work, is actually an older one that long went cold. It's title, as John has come to see it, is _The Rose Laker Case._

As Sherlock had rather impatiently explained even while finishing his Philosophy homework for him

(under protest of course)

a woman's body was once found washed up in the Thames. Nobody could say for sure how she died, except that it wasn't by drowning. She had no identity, no name or back-round. Only a pocket-watch, sealed shut with wax and clasped on a chain about her neck. Inside the watch once it was broken open was a name. Rose Laker. Except that no one with that name matched the woman's description, or seemed to relate to the case at all.

 

Of course, the teen's eyes alight with a thousand different theories as he bends over his chemistry set, an extremely fragile thing that John had swiftly learned since moving in it was prone to explode at random intervals. Now he eyed it nervously from his bed, knees tucked up against his chin as Sherlock leaned over a microscope with all the intense concentration of a man bordering insanity. The evening outside turned a brilliant scarlet as the hours ticked away, and the teen sighs as he knows this will be another long stretch of silence.

This was how it often was inside _**221 B**_ , and though he found it strange to spend hours staring at a person who barely acknowledged his existence at times, John at the same time found it immeasurably comforting to merely be able to close his eyes and not have to worry about anything.

Beside him lay a plate with warm tea and a few biscuits that he munched on with placid happiness, careful not to get crumbs on the bed, and though he tried to coax Sherlock again and again, so far getting the Detective to eat anything was like pulling teeth.

His exasperated sigh his loud in the small cabin as he stands with his now empty plate, scowling deeply.

“Serves you right if you faint with hunger.”

 

The teen doesn't respond, but John thinks he sees a frustrated frown cross his features and quirk his brow.

In truth, Sherlock knows he's pushing him. Experimenting. Testing his roomate's breaking point. He can't help it, partly because he'll need to know in the future so he can get John properly angry at him so that he can sneak off and find Jim.

However another part is because so much about John Watson _confuses_ him. It was like watching a video reel, one that you've known since you were kid. You expected an ease and warm comfort from watching it, but instead the plot changed dramatically at random times and became a horror, then a romance, then an action film. The one thing that never wavered was John's care taking instincts. The dark-curled youth had noticed it almost right away, but his flat-mate almost border lined on the obsessive when it came to people's health.

 

_He will make a good doctor when he finally realizes it's where he's always wanted to go._

 

Sherlock can't help but muse after the third time he asks him if he needs a break, to which he makes a vague grunt that means neither yes or no.

 

_That is if I don't murder him first and ensure not even Mycroft can find the body._

Hours into the case, and he cannot seem to find a scrap of evidence.

Nothing.

It was like the samples he had taken from the body and watch stared at him through the lens of the microscope with steadfast defiance, refusing to yield any secrets.  
Like there had really been no woman at all.

Officer Kyousuke had given him this puzzle with a sort of pitying smirk, and now the teen understood why.

_Nothing about the whole situation made any sense._

 

The woman being in the Thames at the time she had been found made no sense.

She had been wearing evening wear, but had been discovered in the morning. She hadn't been floating for long either, because her body would have decomposed along faster than it had.

 

John didn't notice Sherlock's growing silence, and when he finally did he mistook it for concentration and not annoyance. Feeling a strange and inexplicable loneliness as the frigid mood his friend had seemed to sink himself into, John hesitates before he stands and slowly creeps on over in sock feet. Sherlock, without looking at him seems to feel his presence drawing closer. His voice is low, but it bears the tightly wound coil of irritation in it's undertone. Those cobalt-blue eyes pick up on it then, the seething anger that's hiding just below the surface. When Sherlock blinks his clear eyes show only calm, but it's as he closes them that a person could see if they looked.

He was clearly exhausted, and John guiltily suspected it was because he had been keeping him up lately with night terrors.

 

It had been after the first week that the first one had happened.

He had dreamed that he had found Harry, dead in the snow.

 

He had woken up so suddenly that he barely had time to cover his face with his pillow before the screaming started.

Since then, Sherlock had stayed up later than he had, always playing that damned violin.

The sad part was, John had been sleeping just a little bit better because of it. Guilt settles into his gut, and he has to push it away with warmer thoughts.

Like how when Sherlock was focused, he tapped his spidery-long fingers on the table with musical rythm.

 

His high cheekbones move only slightly when he asks the logical question to John's moving.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Sherlock....... _Look_ at me.”

 

Something in John's voice held a certain gravitational pull. Despite his focus, his all consuming _need_ to figure out the case, Sherlock couldn't help but look up. Face creasing in annoyance, his eyes meet his roomate's mouth opening in the beginning of a curt reply.

Instead he is totally unprepared for the wide smile John gives him, illuminating his entire face and bringing an unfamiliar heat that settles deep inside the Detective's chest.

For just a split second, he's analyzing John, totally forgetting about Rose Laker.

No.

Not analyzing.

 

_Seeing._

 

_Softness._

_Eyes are tired but he's happy._

_Happier than when I first met him._

_He's worried I'm not sleeping._

_I'm not._

_He shouldn't know that, it will make him worry._

_Crumbs on his jumper, horrid colour that one._

_Ugly jumpers._

_Should be burned really.  
_

_Somehow it still suits him._

_Odd._

_They really shouldn't suit anyone.  
_

_Unknown expression._

_Quickly turning into his confused face._

_He's confused as to why I'm frozen._

 

… _ **. I'm confused as to why I'm frozen.**_

 

 

Staring blankly into space, it takes Sherlock a moment to register that John's speaking.

He frowns at the moment of nothingness he's just experienced as he tunes in, glancing at the way John's hands clench and unclench in silent relief.

Relief that he lives at _**221 B.**_

Relief directed at Sherlock.

 

“I'm just going to go out for a bit and get some fresh air. Try to take a nap okay? No arguments. You look positively _starry eyed_ from sleep deprivation.” He says flatly, noticing how the teen's face curls into annoyance at the word _nap._

 

Like a child told to take a time out, Sherlock slouches as he flops onto his bed, fingers absently itching for a cigarette. He's got twenty-five nicotine patches on, he wonders if it's time to replace a few.

“Sleep is for the weak John. Besides that, I have never been _Starry Eyed_ over anything or anyone.”

 

He grumbles, to which the boy rolls his eyes and moves to dump his dishes in the sink. He gives the fridge a wide berth, just in case anything _live_ is inside.

“Yes. Tell that to every medical professional in the world that claims you'd _die_ without it.”

 

“Idiots, all of them.”

He supplies helpfully. His grin is impish as he makes his friend scoff and throw up his hands. John's annoyed features are something Sherlock instinctively wants to bring out. Like poking a hedgehog just to get it to roll up into a ball of spines.

 

“I'm sure.”

 

The thoughts of tricking John about his cocaine use don't seem like such a good idea as the blonde boy chuckles at his obvious reluctance at rest, wrapping his coat and scarf about his shoulder to ward off the chill. In those eyes are such a level of trust that when he levels his gaze at Sherlock, he doesn't have to speak to know that he's proud of him. The Detective can almost hear it in the way that he laces on his boots. Feel it in the uncomfortable heat that's begun to burn in his shoulder blades.

 

_Almost a month and a half clean. No smoking, no nothing. Good job!_

_Good job!_

_I'm so proud!  
_

 

The thought makes the brief interest in testing John's limits dissolve in guilt.

He had a way of bringing Sherlock's more human and useless emotions to the surface.

He had never had anyone look at him with such open emotions splayed out in their face, and yet still hold so many unknown secrets.

Pointless things, emotions were. Like pity, concern and _loyalty._

 

John so far had been that in spades.

Loyal.

Right now at least Sherlock felt like somehow that loyalty should be rewarded, because he had never had anyone shower him with so much of it. Like an endless supply, John didn't hold back.

If only he knew how to tell someone they _deserved_ to be happy.

To have loyalty in _return._

Because John, inexplicably, didn't seem to believe that he did.

He refused to cut off ties with his family, even though watching him each day march up to the post office to see only an empty mailbox is painful.

 

_Stupid family._

 

He chose to push himself in every class, climbing his way inch by inch to the top with his every undying breath. Even when the class was pointless, even when he'd never use the information given to him ever again. He memorized it, bored Sherlock out of his mind with it. Laughed and pulled his hair out over it.

 

_Stupid teachers. Idiots.  
_

 

And most of all, he kept coming back to _**221 B**_ even when there was no logical reason he should.

It made no sense.

 

Sherlock, feeling a lump in his throat he doesn't like, watches John's receding figure from the safety of the window.

He can't help but get the dread pull in his stomach, and hear the voice in his mind that whispers sulkily that John had no reason to come back from his walk.

No reason at all.

 

Somehow, Sherlock had to ensure his partner _had_ a reason.

Not even realizing that John's reason for staying stared at him in the mirror as he paced back and forth with growing unease.

 

Starry eyed. Such a strange choice of words.

Almost poetic. He thinks if he peers closely into the glass, Sherlock can see the shine John's talking about, hidden deep in his blue-green depths. Except it's not from exhaustion. It's much too bright for that.

It's something else.

Something the teenager feels inexplicably foolish and stupid about for not being able to figure out. Frowning and sulking, he returns to bed, pulling the blanket up over his curls. The darkness is soothing, and Sherlock realizes that even though John was infuriating, he was right.

He _is_ tired.

Annoyance spreads through him at his own body, but he's already falling asleep before he can stop himself.

Sherlock Holmes, curled like a cat in his covers, dreams of an expanse of stars that night.

Stars that smile at him from the inky black sky, reaching out to take his hand and laughing in a familiar way.

_"You git."_

_  
_Broken stars, scarred into silvery cracks and lines.

Beautiful despite their wounds......


	16. The Right Choice and The Only Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yaaay! so much love has been given! thank you all so much! comments keep me motivated, and kudos make me happy :3 *dances cheerily* soo here's the next chapter! Enjoy!

 

Of course, how was John to know he wasn't going to be gone for more than half an hour?

Carrying a plastic bag full of various supplies, his mind is far more occupied with the happy musings of a teenager who realizes he may actually pass his Christmas exams. It's been a fight every step of the way, and there were days (mostly when he was still living in a tree) when he almost cried over the complicated equations and theories that looked like ancient Greek all scribbled in his notes. Sherlock, for all of his claims at being a “truly appalling teacher” had helped him through things he struggled to wrap his mind around, and had saved his butt on numerous occasions when teachers had tried to force him into detention with a quick lie and a swift glare.

 

Strangely enough, John had come to be able to picture that glare as easily as he pictured his sister's face. If he closed his eyes he could picture the way that bowed mouth would curl, the cold fury glinting behind those irises of ice. The way that gaze was evoked over someone as simple as _him._

A slow flush crawls up John's cheeks, and he runs a hand through his hair so the ends stick up in all directions and he looks not unlike a puppy after it shakes itself dry. He can picture almost all of Sherlock's expressions with that kind of ease. He found himself hungering to do it, in the boring hours of class. Though it distracted him, and made Summer giggle and waggle her eyebrows suggestively in a way that made John turn an interesting shade of pink.

Easily pictured....

 

As easily as he had once been able to picture his brothers' face....

He ignores the dull ache that spreads through him at that thought, pushing it away.

Robin would have been thirteen just after Christmas.....

 

A part of John wishes he could spend the holiday at the snowy grave, even though he also knows to do so would mean alerting his Father to his presence. Still, the inevitable was approaching. _Adelaide's_ closed for the winter holdays-

 

Meaning he had to find a place to crash soon or go home, the mere thought making him more than a little bit nauseous. The fear that he still hasn't heard from Harry comes back again.

Going home.

Damn it.

Going home.....

 

 

 

He hears the engine long before he actually sees the sleek black car that pulls up in front of him in the school parking-lot, circling around the roundabout with the fluid ease of a driver used to posh living. John, instantly suspicious of anything or anyone worth more than a couple of pounds stops short, narrowing his eyes at the darkly tinted glass. A couple of possibilities run through his mind as he begins to back up slowly, fleeing being the foremost.

He does not want a surprise.

He wants to go back to his room quietly, thank you very much.

 

As if fate hears him and snickers gleefully, the voice that sounds from the window as it slides down just a crack is heart-sinkingly familiar. He closes his eyes and leans his head so it stares up at the sky in utter frustration.

_Why now?_

_Couldn't it have waited just a moment?_

_Why?_

 

“John.”

 

Mycroft Holmes smiles thinly from the back seat of the car, leaning into the dark leather upholstery like he is one hundred percent content to wait for the teenager's little fit of annoyance to subside. Like he's used to dealing with insolent children.

 

As soon as John thinks this, he remembers that his roomate once alluded to the fact that Mycroft had practically raised him on his own after their Mother died in an accident.

 _Insolent children_ Doesn't seem to quite cut the look on the young man's face any more. John was beginning to use _Sherlocked_ as an active adjective in his descriptions of people.

 

He privately wonders if this means he needs more friends.

 

“Mr. Holmes.” He says out loud evenly when he finally catches a hold on his anger, mouth a tight line of suppressed stress. John lets a plastic bag fall to his feet as he gestures with one hand, trying not to sound too sarcastic and failing miserably.

 

“To what do I owe this.... _pleasure_?”

 

The note of steel in his voice must not be lost on the elder Holmes because he gets out of the car as if to ensure John won't run away. His ginger hair is beginning to have the distinct mark of a widow's peak in the falling snow, and the teen privately suspects it bothers the man standing before him more than he lets on. As tall as Sherlock is, John's used to looking up at people when they speak, and Mycroft is the sort that _demands_ to be looked in the eye when addressed.

 

His voice is business-like.

Smooth.

“Just Mycroft is all right John. When I'm not your teacher, I could truly care less. It makes causal conversation awkward.”

 

John swallows, brain beginning to hum with the speed of his thoughts. He gestures again to the car, an eyebrow lifting in disbelief.

“Is that what this is? A casual conversation?”

 

Mycroft's eyes are quite a bit like Sherlock's. They hold a lot in the depth of them, shrouding their true feelings and emotions with colours of grey and blue. However where Sherlock's have moments of calm sailing, where they're as clear as a summer's sky and just as open, Mycroft's are the shade of thunderstorms.

Bleak.

Unreadable.

Indescribable.

 

It's like every emotion John wants to throw at him, to shout drains away until he's left just as cool. If he wasn't so unnerved by it, he might have found it an almost peaceful experience.

“I have every intention of making this casual John. However standing here arguing in the snow and watching you debate whether or not it would be a good idea to punch me-

which by the way I must advise _against_ -

does not help the tension in this situation.”

 

He waits for John to mull it over, and there's a glint in his eyes when the teen sighs and throws up his hands in utter defeat.

“I just can't _win._ I take a break from one Holmes and the _other_ appears! At this rate I'll not know what it's like to be around _average_ people ever again!”

 

Pushing past him, the blonde youth ducks into the car and wiggles over to the far end with a resigned and rather familiar sulk to his figure. The thought that his little brother has unconsciously teaching John bad habits makes Mycroft want to smirk just a little. Instead he smooths down the creases in his light grey suit and steps inside the car, closing the door behind him with a faint click.

 

Inside, John is assaulted with the smell of fine leather, crisp and warm in his breath. In fact the entire car is about five degrees warmer than outside, and stifling to him under his coat and scarf. Working at the knot at his throat now with rapidly warming fingers, he glances out of the corner of his eye at the man who's leaning against an umbrella like he thinks it might, ridiculously enough, rain. Staring at Sherlock's brother, the teen recognizes some things in the man's presentation that he hadn't taken time to make note of while he had been teaching in class.

For one, despite Sherlock's constant claims that his brother was putting on weight, Mycroft was not fat. If anything, he was husky, which John got the distinct impression was only because most of his career was spent behind a desk. The suit he wears is more expensive than anything John has ever owned, brass buttons spell the initials M.H in gilded lettering along the cuffs. His shoes are sensible, and Mycroft's face is relaxed despite the way he drums his fingers impatiently along the handle of the umbrella. It's very obvious he's used to this sort of kidnapping thing, another thought that makes John shift in nervousness.

 

Then Mycroft catches him staring, and he looks down away to his hands that rest in his lap, his pale lashes hiding the expression in his eyes.

He can feel that sharp gaze taking in so much more in that simple movement than John could ever hope to.

A long silence stretches between them, in which the teen notes that he has no idea where the car is taking them. The thought is not comforting.

 

Finally, Mycroft speaks and dispels the ice.

“I wish to discuss my brother with you.”

 

A sudden fear creeps up John's neck, Sherlock had been doing so well lately. He didn't know what happened, but he was sure it wasn't the madman's fault, and he blurts out without thinking

“It's not his fault whatever he did! Don't expel him just because some idiot says one thing-”

 

He's cut off by a sound Mycroft makes from deep in his chest. At first John thinks it must be a cough, but then he realizes in bewilderment that the young man beside him is _laughing._

For a moment he watches him, mouth parted in shock and surprise as the man of ice laughs harder than he thinks he's ever seen anyone laugh before.

Clutching at his side, Mycroft gasps with the effort.

 

“The fact that you automatically _assume_ he's in trouble..... You really know him far too well for your own good, don't you?”

 

After he gets over his initial shock that Mycroft Holmes has _emotions_ , John can't help but flush and smile just a little sheepishly. His voice is mumbling as he pulls his legs up to his chest, staring absently into the distance. Looking not unlike a small child, Mycroft sees in him the little boy that John really is. He doesn't notice it most of the time because it's hidden by a strong face and stubborn independence, but now it shows in the wideness of his eyes and the sort of half-frightened expression hovering on his mouth.

 

“He's always in trouble. _Always._ It's part of his nature, without chaos he goes a little loopy.”

 

The man's smile is faint as it fades back to a mask of calm, resting his chin atop his fanned fingers.

“You've noticed then. I'm afraid I've let him be on his own for far too long..... He really doesn't know how to act in public most of the time.....”

 

His tired sigh is one of a teacher running on too many coffee fumes and not enough sleep. John gets the irrational urge to tell this man to stop working himself into an early grave. However he doesn't have nearly enough guts to do so. Instead he settles for looking at him curiously, bangs half-hiding one eye. He needed a haircut, but Sherlock hadn't given him enough time lately to cut it himself.

 

When Mycroft speaks again, it's with renewed stiffness. He looks at him, and in that moment the grey turns to white-blue.

“Tell me John.... what is your motive behind befriending my brother?”

 

Looking at him perplexedly, John is unsure of what to say.

“What do you me-”

 

“I mean is there a _reason_ you two get along so well? Because whether you know it or not, Sherlock surprisingly has never kept a roomate for this long. He has never even been clean this long _willingly_ from cocaine, which I know somehow is your doing.”

 

He eyes the teen shrewdly, lips pursed in thought.

“What I am saying is, do you have an ulterior goal? Be honest-

it will be less painful for you that way.”

 

Though the threat is subtle, John has no doubt in his mind that it's very, _very_ real. He swallows and looks at the cramped quarters of the car, suddenly shrinking in his mind to an even smaller space. He is distinctly reminded of the look his Father sometimes got, seething just there under Mycroft's gaze. It was tempered with protectiveness and politeness, but still John could see it. He felt claustrophobic and opened the window just a crack. Regaining his senses with the rush of cool hair that slides down his cheek, he gasps, panting.

With the relief comes anger.

 

“Of course not you bloody _git!_ Just what in God's name do you _take_ me for?”

He realizes a second too late that rage may not be the best response towards a man he was fairly sure could have his ass expelled in a second, but he's also not surprised to look over and realized he hasn't affected the elder Holmes at all with his outburst.

 

Mycroft, looking at him blandly, shrugs one shoulder.

“I take you as Human. Humans are selfish, greedy things at heart. Didn't you once say..... that goodness is _earned_?”

 

John stares, clapping his mouth shut and gritting his teeth. The thought that anyone would ever think of him like that, that they would suspect him of having ulterior motives was insane. He had no goals, he just wanted to survive. Survive and keep his friends safe. His family.

Cheeks burning, he suddenly knows with a forceful pull in his gut that Mycroft is trying to do the exact same thing.

 

Protect his family.

 

After a moment, John deflates, voice infinitely softer. Broken.

Tiny.

“I'm sorry.... I.... I would never hurt Sherlock. Not after all he's done.... Not after _knowing_ him.... If you understood....”

 

He doesn't look up because he's lost in the complicated swamp of emotions the mere mention of the name of his partner gives him, but he senses Mycroft's gaze on him. Boring a hole, seeing all the scars along John's arms and back. Knowing.

Knowing that he's imagining Robin and how he couldn't protect him.

Picturing Harry and worrying he'd lose someone else.

His voice is like a feather.

 

“You're really going home for the holidays.... aren't you.”

The way he says it, it's not a question.

Wordlessly, John nods.

Mycroft sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

“You're only going to hurt people you know.... Sherlock will be furious.... He'll try to stop you. He wanted to invite you to our manor over Christmas.”

 

At that, John's head snaps up in surprise. The elder Holmes smirks coolly.

“He thinks he's unpredictable, but in truth my brother is truly an idiot. To put so much possessiveness on another human being... I don't envy you... even if he doesn't feel affection towards me.”

 

John's voice is surprisingly confident.

“He loves you Mycroft. He just doesn't know how to show it.”

 

The man's smile is bleak, grey eyes holding an unknown emotion.

“And he loves you Mr. Watson. Which is why if you're leaving for your home I suggest you don't tell him until the last minute or he'll drag you back with everything he has.”

 

The lump of fear settles in John's chest. He can see that kind of anger, he knows it. He had the same type every time he was forced to watch Harry self destruct and drink her way to an early death. Even the heat he feels at being told that he's _loved_ by someone is eclipsed by the blind terror he feels at the idea of returning home.

The car, slowing down back into the roundabout, grinds to a halt.

It takes the teen a moment to realize they're right back where they started, at the front of the school.

He supposes his time is done with Mycroft. Opening the door on his side, he makes as if to get out.

A hand stops his arm.

Mycroft holds out to him a silvery-white card.

There's a single phone number.

 

“I understand your wishes for me not to get involved. But know that my services are only a call away.”

 

The man stares into John's neck, as the boy doesn't turn around. His shoulders are hunched like someone already imagining weeks of pain.

Mouth dry, he takes the card and shoves it into his pocket, even as the dark side of him screams

 

_Coward!_

_Selfish!_

_Don't let others get involved in your mess!_

 

Without any formal goodbye, John Watson stalks away from the car.

His receding figure is something Mycroft Holmes watches for a good minute and a half. His thoughts bear the dread he was unwilling to show the teenager.

 

_Sherlock's let you in, and he never does that with anyone._

_You are quite literally is heart._

_A living, breathing, heart to Sherlock's mind._

_If you come back too damaged......_

 

The thought that he had infinite tabs already along the Watson Home was the only thing that made him leave the boy to his thoughts.

The only thing that stopped Mycroft from wanting to keep John from going down his own destructive path, if only to spare his brother.

 

He did not know how Sherlock would deal with heartbreak if John came back broken.

He wasn't even sure if his little brother was capable of having such emotions.

 

_Caring is not an advantage._

 

His Mother's words echo in his mind. She had told him that many, _many_ times before.

Yet even as she'd say it, she'd look at him with those grey eyes and whisper

_You and Sherlock are my weakness._

_My only, **only** weakness._

 

Sherlock was Mycroft's.

As much as he hated him, he could not deny it if he tried.

Him.... and the man that the elder Holmes had not yet told Sherlock about.

That his brother had not yet deduced. Digging around for his phone, he finds the number and calls it almost instinctively. He needed to hear someone's voice.

Needed to know he was making the right decision.

The dial rings for a few moments in his ear, and then a low voice picks up.

 

“My?”

 

“Hello Gregory.”

 

There's a smile in his greeting, the young man can't help it as he lets the driver pick his own course. The way the man speaks his name, it instantly dissolves all worry in Mycroft Holmes' posture.

 

“It's good to hear your voice.”

Lestrade mumbles, voice thick with unspoken emotions.

 

Mycroft can only hope he's done the right thing.

“Can we talk? I'm not sure I've made the right choice...” Admitting that kills him, and Greg knows that because he immediately becomes sombre and serious.

He knows the gravity behind the weakness in those words, and his breath hitches just a little.

 

“Tell me.”

 

With that simple order, the elder Holmes frowns, and his hand begins to tap on the umbrella handle as he explains the web surrounding _Adelaide_ in invisible threads.


	17. The Gateway To Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo drug use up ahead! fair warning! pretty soon I might have to up the rating on this fic, since there's gonna be some heavy violence soon not to mention smut... :/ aw well.... enjoy! comment and kudo it if you like! <3

John is surprised and more than a little bit relieved when he steps into _**221 B**_ to find that Sherlock has amazingly, fallen asleep. Not just a light sort of snooze either, or he would have startled awake when the teen kicked snow onto the mat from his boots.

No.

he's out like a light, blankets curled about himself haphazardly, a small snore coming from his lips that even in sleep were pressed in a small scowl. His long stick-like figure is twisted into all sorts of uncomfortable angles, making him look prickly and just as austere as he was when he was awake. Smirking at the sight John releases some of the tension that's built up in his shoulders by arranging the pillow's around the madman's head into a more comfortable position, silently marvelling at just how dead to the world Sherlock had become. Like looking after a small child, John found himself gathering all the things that had been scattered about on the floor in the teen's experiments, stacking them neatly in small piles. He wonders to himself how this has become normal to him, caring for a teen older than him in such a Mother-Hen way that it bordered on the strange and silly.

 

The thought actually makes him laugh, and Sherlock blinks blearily awake at the sound. Curls mussed with sleep and eyes a deep, deep green, for one second John sees a little boy in that face. A lonely child unsure of where he is. It lasts for only a second, then the shield comes back up, putting a veil over those irises. For a brief moment John wishes he could rip that veil away, shake the man to his very core. He wants to know what would happen if Sherlock were to lose his composure, what kind of face he would make if he was bothered or uncomfortable.

Instead he settles these irrational thoughts by holding up a steaming mug, the design around it's handle purple wisterias that almost match the shade of his eyes in the lighting of the room.

 

“Care for a cuppa?”

 

Sherlock accepts with a low mumble that could be interpreted as several different things, gripping the mug, slender fingers wrapping around it tightly despite it's heat. It must burn, but neither of them speak of it as John moves about in a flurry of action. He begins to speak lightly, uncomfortable with the long silence that stretches in which the teen gives him a very long and very piercing stare.

“So Summer and Irene seem to be doing well. Honestly I was a little worried, but I think it's all going to be all right now. Every time I see them together I can feel the happiness coming off both of them, so that's good.... a bit good..... Lestrade's given us more homework, I think personally he's trying to make us scream and push us to the edge only to drag us back. He likes mind games that one....”

Laughing weakly at his own attempt at humour, he feels those eyes lined up on his neck. Narrowing accusingly.

John knows he's a terrible liar, but he can't help but try.

Desperately try even as Sherlock refuses to drink from his cup.

 

“Oh! And I think soon I'll be able to buy a laptop, which means I can blog all about your crazy cases and how you drive me to insanity and how Mycroft is irritating.... After Christmas it should be-”

 

“You're leaving.”

 

Sherlock, voice cold and distant, looks at him with unblinking cat eyes. The way he says it, deep baritone so frank and cutting through all futile attempts at deception leaves no room for protest. Fact.

Silence stretches between them as slowly, John is forced to seal his own fate. His shoulders slump forward slightly, and those deep green eyes are able to catch the brief tremble that outlines his figure. When he speaks, his voice comes out hoarser than he wishes it did. John can't look at his friend's face as he sets down his own cup and saucer on the floor by the bed. He can't justify it, can't even tell him assuredly it will only be for the Christmas break. He can't because Sherlock deserves to know the truth, point blank. He owes him at least that much.

His blue eyes close, because he can't face down those opalescent orbs pinning him into place.

John has never felt so cowardly in his life.

 

“ _.......Yes....”_

 

 

There's a strange moment, one that Sherlock isn't even sure actually exists, where he thinks his stomach drops out from under him. It disappears, leaving the rest of his internal organs to descend into nothingness. Before either of them can even fully realize what's happening, the cup shatters with a resounding _crash_ as Sherlock moved faster than he can think.

John doesn't know what happens, but suddenly he's inches away from those green irises, unable to think and unable to breathe. A warm hand is clasped about his wrist, Sherlock's fingers digging into his skin. Not painfully, just enough to be there.

Just enough to be unyielding.

Except that John wouldn't be able to pull away if he tried.

His voice is soft, trembling.

Unsure of what he sees in the Detective's eyes. Whatever it is it burns him, makes everything inside of him fill with molten fire.

John thinks that if the man weren't holding him up, he knees would have buckled in a second.

 

“Wha-”

 

Then he hears something that should not happen. Should not come true. He's never heard the word pass Sherlock's lips in his life, never even thought the man was capable of it. His deep baritone uses the word a single time, and in that breath John tastes the flavour of him.

Something dark.

Mysterious.

Deep.

Like the sharp tang of ginger or cinnamon.

 

“ _Please_ John. Come stay with me....”

 

_I need you. Don't leave._

 

Those pained irises seem to be saying. John's sure that's just his imagination though. Sherlock Holmes needed nothing and no one. This was just pity. He didn't need him.

He was nothing special.

He was just stupid, and simple, and plain and _ordinairy._

And Sherlock was much, _much_ more than that.

For this man to need him for anything was just pure foolishness. John did not exist on the same level the Holmes' did. That was just a fact.

 

And then, it all falls apart in a tearing, crumbling mess with the distant sound of the school bell ringing, signalling dinner. Snapping them out of their statue-like poses. John, gasping at how loud his heartbeat is in his own ears, murmurs the only thing he can. He thinks he might burst into tears, it feels like it.

He wants to be gone and far away before that happens.

His chest feels too tight, there are too many emotions roiling through him like a title wave.

 

“I-I'm _sorry! I'm sorry!_ ”

 

Wrenching himself from Sherlock's grip, he turns and flees from that cabin. Runs out into the snow faster than he's ever ran before. His entire body burns, and the winter wind bites into him because he has no jacket, and only shoes on, no boots. All the while his mind screams.

 

_Fuck._

_Fuck.FuckFuckFuckFuck BUGGERING FUCK._

_Stop._

_Stop it._

_No._

_FUCK._

 

 

He barely notices when he trips on a snow bank, falling forward rather unceremoniously onto his face. The momentum carries him, and he rolls down a small hill and into a large pile of snow, drowning his flaming thoughts in ice.

 

_Damn._

_Fuck._

_Bugger. Arse tits and Fuck._

 

A small whimper comes from deep inside his throat, and lying face-down in the snow, the teenager trembles all over. His shoulders heave in a repressed sob, and he has to clutch at his stomach to keep from vomiting with the ache that fills him.

John Watson grits his teeth to keep from screaming, because he knows this feeling, and he instantly regrets it's ever been created.

_No._

_Not Sherlock._

_Anyone, anything but him._

_No._

 

Even as he thinks this though, there's no stopping the warmth that fills him as he pictures that face, and the accompanying longing. He can't believe what he's done. What he almost did.

Shaking, John sits up and realizes he had just been half a breath away from giving up on his sister and never returning home. Hands covering his mouth, he feels the tears hot and liquid on his cheeks. They fall past his chin, cooling in the snow.

He can't stop it, can't cut off his feelings.

Hiding in the snow, John lets his forehead rest on his knees as he lets horrible guilt smash him into the sharp rocks of his mind, berating him.

 

_Stupid!_

_Coward! What have you done?!_

_You almost left the only family you have, and all for a teenager that hardly gives you the time of day._

_Sherlock Holmes?!? He'll never **ever** be capable of feeling this way._

_That's why you love him too._

_You always love those that will hurt you the most._

 

_**Love.** _

 

John in that moment hates the word, it tastes like iron in his mouth. He has to stop this.

He can't.

He knows that it will destroy everything he's created up until now if he doesn't. His tenuous friendship, the way those cat eyes look at him.

Totally trusting.

All of that would dissolve in an instant.

He had to let this go.

John Watson had to become numb.....

 

And that's precisely what happened, in the end.

Curled up in the oak tree, John checked out of his own mind again. It was easier than last time even, and he knows a part of him should be worried. Instead he is only desperately, horribly relieved.

 

Coincidentally, Sherlock hunted around for his secret stash at that moment, ripping off the nicotine patches like he could rip away his own skin in the process. The cool needle in his arm distracts him from the feelings he doesn't understand, the terrifying fear that's too new for him to handle.

The fear that he may never see that blonde head turning to smile at him ever again. That he'd ruined the only friendship he'd ever had. 

That he pushed too far, too soon. 

Broken some unknown bond.

That somehow, his heart had already adjusted to having another pulse beating in time with it's own, and that the absence of the loyal rythm would cause it to stutter and die.

 

That night, John doesn't return to _**221 B.**_ In fact he doesn't return for the last few days of school at all, braving hypothermia with callous indifference. Once he comes back to the oak to find a lonely blanket waiting for him, with a note that looks suspiciously like Mycroft's handwriting.

 

_Take Care._

 

It says. If the boy wasn't so detached from reality, he might have laughed at his Chemistry teacher's feeble words of caution.

John had stopped taking care years ago.

He didn't deserve care when he could so easily consider leaving Harry on her own with their Father.

 

 *****

 

If Sherlock weren't lost in his mind-palace, heart speeding on cocaine and breath ragged, he might've noticed John's absence more clearly. He might have deduced that John had gone back to hiding in that stupid oak tree, the one that he could see if he squinted to far into the darkness outside. He didn't dare try and look for him though. As it was he could barely stand.

Instead, he is captured by a whirl of colours and shapes and sounds and loneliness, noises he can't suppress. He once read a book, long ago about a man who entered hell. Instead of flame, he was surrounded by an icy world of death and emptiness. Sherlock thinks that's what outside looks like right now.

Hell. 

He doesn't move from his bed, the covers still unkept.

The cup lies abandoned on the floor, shattered into a thousand pieces. Shards. They cut him when he tries to touch it, the blood seeming brighter than usual to his drug-addled brain.

Sherlock is almost sure he's overdosed a little.

Or maybe a lot.

_all the kings horses and all the kings men.... can't put my mind back together again...._

 

_Gone._

_Pain._

_Why pain?_

_No pain._

_Stop thinking._

_Not working._

_Stop._

_No._

_Stop thinking....._

_Stop..........._

 

When Chrismas break comes, John boards the bus home without saying goodbye to anyone.


	18. Memories Dyed In Blood

 

 

 

 Sherlock was just overreacting.

He would sulk and then get better.

It was only for two weeks.

No need to worry. No reason to fear.

No reason at all.

At least, John had managed to convince himself of this to help ease the horrible guilt he was feeling at having not even said goodbye. Sitting curled up in the bus seat and gripping his backpack, he bites his lip and pulls at the strings of his sweater.

Only two weeks.

Still, he wasn't sure after the way he had acted if he could face those eyes again.

No.

John told himself fiercely he had to move out after Christmas break.

It would be better for the both of them....

Sherlock would never _ever_ find out.

Things would remain unchanged.

He would live in the tree again if he had to, even though he was pretty sure at this point even Summer knew that was his getaway home in a pinch. Twice she had offered to let him crash at her place since the fallout, but he had never accepted. Besides the fact that Irene had become disconcertingly warmer towards him as of late, John didn't want to intrude.

*****

There's a lot more snow out in the Enlgish countryside. Much, much more than John is really prepared for. When the bus stops at the station after a long run over the hill, he has to wade helplessly for a minute or two to keep himself from drowning in the drifts of white.

 

_Not drowning John. Crushed. You can't drown in snow. Idiot._

 

The voice comes to him and makes the brief moment of silliness that sparks in his soft blue eyes disappear.

Nope.

Not going there.

Not even going to start.

He had gotten good lately at ignoring that persistent voice, the one that had appeared the moment he had first come back from checking out.

The one that always whispered to him in a prideful baritone.

 

He had almost half-hoped that Harry would meet him here, if only to loosen some of the tight knots that had been becoming distressingly tighter during the long ride. However he sees no sight of the auburn curls he wishes to catch a glimpse of, and he has to remind himself sharply to breathe.

 

_Calm._

_At least you're away from the mess you left behind at school._

_She's fine._

_She's strong and she's fine and she's probably waiting for you anxiously at the house, so get your butt in gear._

 

It was late in the afternoon-

Which probably meant their Father had already passed out somewhere.

 

His little town, the one he had grown up in and learned everything important he had ever needed to know hasn't changed a bit since his absence. He can still see his breath, just the same as when he was a little kid. It hangs in the air and clings to the picket fences he passes, dusted frostily as if God himself had wanted everything to look like the back of a festive postcard. Counting each house, John can't help but list in his head all the places in which memories had occurred.

 

_That's the tree I climbed one summer with Molly. We were best friends then, I should go see her this week at some point.... 'course it might be awkward, considering I also kissed and broke up with her under that same tree..... There's Mike's house, I wonder if he's finally gone off to college yet...._

 

Like staring into an old scrapbook, the images in his head are bright and highly focused on certain events. Things that at the time John had found infinitely important.

Like how Molly Hooper's hair had smelled when he had finally gotten up the courage to try a kiss (like raspberries) Or how high Harry's laugh had been that time he had pushed her on the swing and she had leapt off in an acrobatic bound into the sand. Little things, not a whole picture. Snapshots.

 

Like colourful streams popping off into the distance.

 

John wonders how there could be so many warm feelings, safe emotions in a town that also made him tremble deep inside with horrible fear.

 

His home is on the end of the next block, a little boulevard called _Ravenperch._

Each step he can feel himself becoming heavier, like his body is resisting.

 

_Don't._

_Don't go._

_Turn around._

_Run John!_

 

_**Harry....** _

 

And then, his unwilling feet pick up into a blind run.

The only second he hesitates is when he crosses the street, an image of a speeding car filling his mind. Other than that, John is at the little green door in a fraction of a second.

The strangest thing, the issue that's always bugged the teen as he rests a hand on the door knob, is that his house is just like all the others.

The same.

Cheery-looking.

Quaint.

If a person's not looking for it, they wouldn't see how the roof has been in long need of mending. Or how the windows are dirty and smeared with lonely grime.

Mouth drawing into a thin line, John knocks once and then twice sharply.

There's a moment of palpable silence.

 

Then the sound of sock feet running on the floor.

When Harry's face appears as the door opens, her reaction is not one John expects. He is prepared for pained smiles, awkward hugs, perhaps some tears.

Instead he is nearly bowled over by the fear that radiates off of her as she sees him, her hands gripping the door frame as if blocking him entrance, not that she could stop him with how thin she's become. Face draining of all colour, Harriet Watson's lips part in open surprise and dawning horror as she takes in her brother's figure.

When she speaks, it's in a breath of terrified adrenaline.

 

“No.... You're not supposed to _be_ here.... The letter, _tell_ me you got the letter!”

 

Then she sobs, and the sound makes her entire chest shake.

That's when John notices that the stripes in Harry's Christmas sweater aren't coloured yarn at all.

It's blood.

Dark, pulsating blood.

He drops his luggage and catches her limp figure just as she sways forward, head almost hitting the icy concrete. In his grip, John is horrified to realize his sister is bleeding out from twin cuts along her wrists and middle.


	19. The Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay long chapter! <3 ummm so okay, I thought I should mention that while I write this I actually do have a playlist for my characters. like, a list of songs that I feel best represent them in my story. If you want to hear the songs while you read, this is the list:
> 
> Sherlock: Elements by Lindsey Stirling  
> John: World so cold by 12 stones  
> Harry: Bleeding out Imagine dragons  
> Mycroft: Everybody Lies by Jason Walker  
> Summer: Drumming Song by florence and the machine  
> Irene: Demons by imagine dragons  
> Jim Moriarty: you're gonna go far kid by the offsrping  
> John and Sherlock's song: No light no light by florence and the machine 
> 
>  
> 
> There are other songs for pairings and stuff but I'm not gonna list them all, so ask you if you want to know any of the others :P but yeah. ONTO THE STORY NOW!

 Sherlock is in the end driven from his hazy drug-induced stupor by an insistent pounding at his door. Frowning, he tries to ignore it as he bends over the Persian textbook he's attempting to read upside down. The focus does little to mend the solid ache that's been spreading from his temples to the crown of his forehead.

He really shouldn't have dosed himself with so much.

Not after going so long without a shoot-up.

 

If it was Mycroft here to tell him that he had finally had the car dug up from the snow pile it had gotten stuck in, Sherlock was going to scream.

A bad storm had set in just after the bus had left.

The teenager of course was only aware that the bus had left because he had memorized it's schedule in a fit of boredom, nothing more.

At least that's what he forced his mind to believe.

 

As a result, he had been sent away like a small child to his room to wait, his brother unable to keep his usual front of calm when he saw just how strung out Sherlock was.

 

“It's only two weeks.”

 

He had snapped, his glower doing little to phase the teen as he stared at the glint of sunlight in the classroom windows like it was fascinating. Sherlock was absorbed in it's shine, and mentally calculated the amount of magnification it would take to enhance it to a point where he could begin lighting things on fire. His brother is speaking, but frankly he doesn't really care.

Instead he's much too focused on why.

Why is he feeling like this?

Not bored.

No.

It's something much more visceral than that.

Something Sherlock can't name.

The closest thing he can identify the feeling with is fear.

Except he is not afraid for his own safety.

Not at all.

 

When he speaks, he cuts Mycroft off in mid-sentence. The man's ginger eyebrow twitches in irritation, tired and fed up. It was no use talking to his little brother when he was like this.

His thin figure was even more twig-like than usual, and his hair instead of just curly was dishevelled. His eyes were brighter than they should be and he twitched occasionally and involuntarily. He looked like someone who was on the verge of cracking, and Mycroft could not believe that it was purely sentiment that had put his brother in this state.

It was something more.

He had never seen someone so......

confused before.

 

“I don't understand.”

 

“Don't understand what?”

 

“I.... Don't understand myself. No. _I understand_ myself. I don't understand _others_. I don't-”

 

He breaks off, jaw working in silent protest of the sluggishness of his body. It's not cocaine this time, it seems. Morphine maybe.

Except that should immobilize him.

The fact that Mycroft doesn't even really know any more what Sherlock is capable of getting his hands on is not a good sign.

Jim has been elusive as usual, slippery and only squeaky clean on the surface. The elder Holmes knew he passed his classroom everyday, if only so he could whistle chipper Christmas carols. A silent reminder that there was very little Mycroft could actually do to him, despite the silent war going on just under the pressed uniforms and casual smiles.

Sherlock grips either side of his head and sighs, closing off all connection. Like he is the only one standing among the desks, his brother sways slightly on his feet, using the edge of one of them to keep his balance.

 

“I do not understand why people willingly put themselves into dangerous situations. At. All. There's no gain in this situation. I don't _understand_ the logic, and I do not _understand_ my frustration. It's not the frustration at not being able to understand. It's something else and no matter how hard I think I can't name it! ARGH why are people so infinitely stupid?!?”

 

Admitting it, that he can't solve a puzzle that should be so simple and so obvious nearly makes the teen bend over double, as if me might shatter.

He looks over, hands still twisted in his hair, and Mycroft sees in those wild blue-green irises a silent plea.

 

_Tell me what I'm missing! What am I not seeing?! Why can't I stop mulling over the way John acted?!_

 

Sherlock stares into those unreadable grey eyes, and his brother adjusts his omnipresent umbrella over his shoulder like he can shift that stare away from him if he tries. That umbrella, so much of it reminds Sherlock of his childhood. That same umbrella had swatted at him to keep him out of trouble, sheltered him when he had been caught too strung out to move in the rain, had ordered and pushed him and forced him into hours of meaningless remedial activities. It had also been the only thing that he had let touch him for the longest time.

When his own skin was too hypersensitive, when he couldn't stand other human beings, it served as a connection, tethering Sherlock back to reality.

The way Mycroft pulls it away, it's like he's refusing this time to pull him back.

 

“You need to figure this one out on your own. I can't tell you. If I did you wouldn't believe me.”

 

Then there's a soft, small smirk, and just a shred of kindness shows under the ice man's exterior. That alone makes his younger brother flinch, unused to sentiment. His lips part as if he's about to protest angrily, but then he stops. His mouth turns to a flat line. His eyes narrow accusingly, and his voice comes out as a deathly quiet hiss.

“I see.”

 

Those few words are enough.

They let Mycroft know that Sherlock feels like the last person he trusted has betrayed him.

 

Though Lestrade's advice to let his younger brother solve it in his own time sounded like a just idea over the phone, the elder Holmes can't help but reach into his desk and dig around for a biscuit after his younger brother stalks away without a word.

Sod his diet.

 

At this rate if he was going to have to deal with not one but two stubborn infants, he wasn't going to push his resolve with anything else.

 

 

_******_

_BAMBAMBAM._

 

Again the door. From the aggravation in the knocks, not Mycroft. Someone else. The knocks are situated only at mid-height towards the right, someone not tall.

Sherlock scowls and rolls over onto his side, trying in vain not to think.

He can see from his vantage point on the bed the bare edge of a lime green scarf as someone reels back their fist to knock again.

 

_BAMBAMBAM._

 

A woman.

 

Frowning into the pages of his book, it takes him only a second to deduce who it is.

When he yanks aside the deadbolt of a lock, Summer glares at him, hands ducked under her armpits and shivering visibly. Her green eyes flash as she takes in his bed-headed and hungover sort of appearance, a sigh of utter exasperation exhaling from her mouth.

 

“ _Christ._ You look worse than John did this past week. I almost feel pity even though it's your fault.” She says bluntly, with only a little bit of mandatory sarcasm in her tone.

 

The man's tall figure towers over her, but in her eyes Sherlock sees she's not the least bit perturbed by the size difference. He's only met Summer once or twice, but she seemed positively boring and uninteresting the few times he had. The two people, connected by a friend but by no other means had steadily avoided one another, a silent agreement or truce to not step on each other's toes. Though Sherlock saw mostly exactly what he saw last time looking at the diminutive young woman before him.

 

_Face is flushed, not used to cold._

_Grew up some place warm, liked the snow at first and now wishes it would vanish._

_Her lips are chapped, she's been outside for quite some time._

_Sleep circles, she's been studying for finals lately._

_Caffeine, her pupils are dilated._

_Irene's lipstick, just a touch of it by her ear._

_Dating._

_Relationship._

 

And that was when Sherlock shut her forcefully out of his Mind-Palace, not wanting to subject himself to the sexual impulses that other humans seemed to actually crave. He knew Irene, and he knew Irene's ways. Even if lately she had seemed to side more with the angels than the demons, he did not want to visualize that kind of intimacy.

When his eyes rest back on Summer's face, he realizes she's analyzing him too.

Not with the same all-consuming detail, but more than the average person. Sherlock's eyes narrow infinitesimally.

Maybe not quite so boring.

Still uninteresting though.

 

“Nevermind.” She says, forcing her way inside to escape from the cold like she's been invited in. This irks the man, but he says nothing as she stomps her boots free of snow and takes off the thick woollen mittens that cover her hands.

“I know you two are in a lovers' spat right now, but I was wondering if you knew his address.”

 

Sherlock did, but he wasn't about to let this girl on that he did. He had read John's file, and he wasn't sure if the teenager even knew just how _deeply_ he had tried to know John.

In an attempt to learn how he acted.

Why he reacted.

What had made that look cross his eyes a week ago, the day he stormed out.

 

“What makes you think I'd know? We weren't friends.” He says flatly.

 

Summer snorts, and the noise is cold.

“Right. And I'm straight. The truth is you're just too stubborn to admit you miss him.”

 

“I don't miss anyone. I have better things to do with my intellect than to waste my time over _sentiment._ ”

 

Crossing over to the banister, she picks up with nimble fingers the rounded skull Sherlock sometimes talked to when he was trying to solve a case. Holding it up in an attempt at comedy, she uses an overly thick British accent in a poor mimic of himself.

 

“Yes because _I'm_ Sherlock _Holmes_. I only need murders and someone to charge me when I run out of batteries. You're just as Human as the rest of us, so stop the act.”

At the Detective's chilly response, she sighs and sets the skull back down in it's place. Crossing her arms over her chest, Summer gets down to business. Sitting on John's bed with far too much ease for someone so annoying. ( _old bed_ Sherlock was forced to remind himself with irritation) she crossed one leg over the other and dug around her coat pocket.

“Look I wasn't able to reach the bus in time but a letter arrived this morning for John in the mail. It looks like it's from his sister, though I didn't open it.”

 

Before she can even fully unfold the white Manila envelope it's snatched away from her fingers, Sherlock turning it over and over again in his hands like it's a piece of evidence in a crime scene. The pacing had begun again, the kind that Summer knew meant the gears in this bizarre teen's mind were turning at full speed. There's a minute where he pauses, considering the consequences and suffering John's possible wrath.

Then, Sherlock Holmes decides that in the end he doesn't really care.

John's angry at him anyway.

 

He begins tearing open the letter before Summer can stop him.

“Hey, what are you-”

 

She stands, tries to stop this idiot before he looses the only friend he has, but her small frame is held back by one impossibly long arm. Sherlock's green eyes scan he letter, frown deepening as he does.

 

_**Dearest John,** _

 

_**Bon't worry abut me, everything's goig splendidly. Father and I have already decoraded the Khristmas tree and timorrow we're going to go sledding just like old times. How is school? Have you net any cute girls?......** _

 

Summer, finally giving up as the man is still as a statue, settles for reading over his shoulder critically. Eyes scanning the sloping handwriting, she can't help but notice the spelling mistakes. John had always said his sister was older, but you wouldn't be able to tell from the sentence structure and grammar. However, Sherlock begins to bounce in place, eyes dancing wickedly.

“Of course. Of courseofcourseofcourse.”

 

She ducks just in time to avoid being hit as he spins about on his heel, lunging for a pen and a piece of paper. Summer watches his movements with an arched eyebrow, realizing all of the conversations with John when he described his roomate hadn't been laced with exaggeration like she had first supposed.

She had absolutely no idea what the madman was doing as he began to write in big block letters, circling words in the letter with a huge grin.

 

“What are you doing? What's going on man?”

 

She doesn't really expect an answer, but when Sherlock replies in an excited tone she listens.

“It's a code! A very simple but very clever little code! You simply take a word and purposefully misspell it, and whatever the letter is _supposed_ to be is the letter you take and use for the message! John mentioned one time when he and his sister were kids they used these sorts of things. It's not uncommon among siblings, and in John's case it was necessary so that his Fa-”

 

Cutting off suddenly, he glances at the girl. Uncharacteristically, Sherlock says no more. Summer waits patiently for him to continue, but when he doesn't she huffs and rubs irritatedly at her neck, annoyed at feeling shut out.

“They're right. You're a pain in the ass to be around.”

 

“Do shut up.” Sherlock responds in a typically agreeable fashion.

 

When he finally goes through the entire letter, his pen stops cold.

Summer notices the stilling of motion and frowns, freckled face paling just a little. Sherlock's hands have clenched into tight fists, and his eyes are suddenly burning.

Without warning he stands, toppling the chair over with his body. It lands with a harsh _THUD._

Not paying her any mind he whips out his phone, dialling a number off by heart and pressing it to his ear. After a single ring, it picks up.

 

“Mycroft. _Do something-_ ”

Breaking off into faster-than-light orders, Summer ignores Sherlock's seemingly manic habits. Instead she stumbles over to the desk wondering what could make a man who seemed so perpetually calm tremble and fling his phone all the way into the kitchen when he hangs up.

 

There, in bold letters, is a simple kind of note.

 

_**DON'T COME HOME.** _

_**HE'S DONE SOMETHING TOO HORRIBLE TO SPEAK OF.** _

_**JOHN....** _

_**I CAN'T LIVE WITH MYSELF ANYMORE.** _

 

Throat closing tightly, Summer begins to shake.

As she claps a hand over her mouth to keep from yelling profanities, she spins over to the sink to get herself a cup of water and wonders vaguely just what she hasn't been noticing about her friend who only a moment ago seemed to have come from a relatively boring home life.

And looking up and seeing the darkly curled teen who seems to be berating himself for not trusting his instincts, she wonders just what Sherlock Holmes, insufferable git he is, _hasn't_ missed right from the very start.


	20. Where Else Would I Go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: IT'S VIOLENT.  
> LIKE REALLY.  
> NO.  
> VIOLENT.  
> AND THERE'S IMPLIED RAPE. NOT TOWARDS JOHN THOUGH.  
> DON'T WORRY.  
> I'M NOT THAT TWISTED....
> 
> in short... enjoy!

Everything is happening too quickly.

John doesn't understand, he needs time, needs to think, needs to _process._

Except he can't.

There _is. No. Time._

 

The door slams behind him as he drags Harry's unconscious form across the floor, breath coming in heavy and painful gasps. Red streaks mark the floor where he pulls, stain his fingers, stain his arms. It even stains his sweater. Like paint. Crimson, warm paint. John is hyper-aware of the ragged noise that's coming from somewhere, something like a cross between a wheeze and a scream. It takes a moment for him to recognize it as his own voice.

Her face is white, too white, and her eyes are wide open and unblinking as she grabs at his jumper. She can't breathe.

John knows this because she's trying to speak, but only a hollow rush comes from her mouth.

Harry spits up blood, clutching her side.

 

_Oh God she's going to die._

 

That's when John shuts down.

Cuts out all emotion.

That's when he begins to _move._

 

Lying her down on her back, she is no longer Harry. She is just a body, just one of Sherlock's cases. Just another person. It's the only way to keep his sanity, he doesn't look at those dark blue eyes silently begging him to let her go, doesn't hear the soft whimpering pleas. John tears at her sweater, getting better access to the wound. He tears at his jeans and is surprised at his own strength as they rip in his hands. Using them as a giant absorbent sponge, he presses into the wound, causing her to gasp and let out a muffled scream. The laceration trails all the way up her hip to just under her chest, deep and bubbling sluggishly.

 

_Stitches._

_Thread.... I have to find thread._

 

Harry groans lowly as he stands, suddenly running towards the kitchen. So many memories, so many things John would have liked to adjust to. Instead he adjusts instantly and painfully. It's strange how an emergency had that affect, that it made his mind so achingly clear. Everything was so simple.

His sister was bleeding out on the floor.

He had to stop it.

Stop all of this.

Stop.

_Stop bleeding dammit._

_Don't you dare...._

He had to....

 

Pulling out the thread from the drawer, he nearly runs into the lone figure standing in the doorway. For one second, all of John's thoughts go white.

Blank.

Immobile.

An empty canvas.

The thread drops from his unmoving fingers. The sound of it as it falls is the only noise besides Harry's ragged breathing.

 

_Clink._

_RrrrRRRRrrrrr._

 

It rolls to a stop at the man's feet. They're bare. Neither of them make a move to grab it. It lies forgotten.

John's first clear thought is one that makes him want to laugh, he has to bite the inside of his cheek as he looks down on is Father, blonde hair an echo of the man's silvery grey locks. Blue eyes looking into uncertain brown ones. A beer bottle makes a smooth glassy sound as he lifts it once to his lips. The booze dribbles down his chin a little, and he wipes it away with one grey-sleeved arm. That same hand that John had seen swipe him, hit him down again and again.

 

He is standing between him and Harry, like he always does.

Like he always has.

Like he always, unfailingly _will._

 

_When did I become taller than this man?_

 

_When did he become.... so small?_

When Hamish Andrew Watson speaks, his voice is rough with years of alcohol abuse. It lacks all empathy, and his face twists into a sort of small sneer.

 

“Yer back.”

 

John doesn't respond. His thoughts are on his sister, who's struggling to rise to her feet. She can't do that. She'll hurt herself further. His thoughts are solely and purposefully focused on saving the person just beyond his reach. Without realizing it his hands have curled into fists.

 

“What did you do to her?”

 

He tries to push his Father aside, tries to break through that line. The man uses the beer bottle like a club and shoved him backwards easily. Too easily, John can't fight it. He's weak in the knees and can't stop himself from shaking. Like a rag-doll he's forced to use the kitchen table as support, and he grips the edges tightly.

Too tightly.

 

His Father smirks, shrugging like he's indifferent to his son's rage.

“Nothin'. I didn't do nothin'.”

 

That tone, the way he grins widely as he says it, and the way Harry whimpers and covers her eyes with one arm. John snaps.

Before he knows what's happening, his fist is connecting with his Father's face. The beer bottle goes flying, landing with a shattering _CRASH_ right by his ear. Hamish stumbles back in shock, the crunching noise of his nose shattering loud as he falls heavily against the living room wall. He grunts, spitting blood onto the floor, and John rushes at him again before he gets a moment to balance himself. Lifting him by the collar with a strength he didn't know he possessed, he pins his Father against the wall brutally. He's shouting, somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he should keep his voice down.

That there are neighbours and _people_ that he should be minding, social protocols he should irrationally be _caring_ about.

He can't help it.

John can't stop now that he's started.

 

“ _Tell me what the fuck you did to my sister you bastard!”_

His Father is struggling to breathe, John's hands pressed about his windpipe, the fingernails digging in. Still the smile hasn't been wiped from his face, and he spits at John even as little flecks of red come away in his saliva.

 

“Fucking bitch.... deserved everything she got. .…. She _wants_ to die... Just like her effin' Mother-”

 

Then without warning, his leg lashes out and kicks John hard in a place that should not be mentioned. The teen goes down like a sack of potatoes, curling into the floor as his shoulder pops with the impact, as stars explode behind his eyes. He gasps in agony, and that's the last breath he gets.

His Father is on top of him, fists flying as they connect again and again with John's jaw. He's much too heavy, pressing down on his ribcage. John can't breathe. Can't think past the pain. He sees only red and hears only Harry's screams.

It seems to go on for hours.

Nothing stops it, nothing can stop this kind of pain as he's flung halfway across the room.

Eventually, Harry stops screaming. Her voice falling silent.

That's when John's mind begins to wail even as the beatings continue.

Even as he hears all the words used to describe him.

 

_Faggot! Useless! Cowardly bastard! Weak! Pathetic! Stupid!_

 

He accepts them all, fading away as it becomes harder and harder to stay awake.

John begins to drift, imagining things that are not there.

 

He imagines at one point he's in the desert, shot.

The blood runs down his shoulder just like the blood that pools underneath him now on the hardwood.

Another time when that hallucination can't distract him any more he imagines he's getting hit by a car. His body goes flying out onto the imaginary pavement, breaking and shattering.

Just like his brother's did.

Just like his own body is doing as his Father punches him so hard he elicits a whimper from unmoving lips.

 

 

And irrationally, he thinks he thinks he imagines a head of dark curls burst in the doorway just before the edges of his vision swirl into black, swallowing him whole.

_Stay with me John._

__

_**Sherlock?**  
_

__

_Stay with me, please! You have to stay.  
_

__

_**......Where else would I go? Sherlock, I have no place left...no place left to go to but to where you are....**  
_


	21. Not On The Side Of The Angels

The sight of his little brother cradling someone, _anyone_ is extremely disconcerting for Mycroft. He would find it uncomfortable if Sherlock even hugged someone that wasn't family, so when he sees the black outline of his coat, hunched over the limp figure of someone, well for a moment he assumes the worst.

That he's too late.

That despite all of John's assurances that he'd be fine, despite all of the surveillance he had put up around the house, he had managed to get himself killed.

 

Irrationally, Mycroft found himself thinking one thing.

 

_You damn idiot. You had one job._

 

He's not sure whether that thought is meant for himself or for John.

 

When he realizes that Sherlock is actually checking John's breathing patterns, he relaxes just a fraction of an inch. The detective's long, cool fingers press to the inside of the teen's neck, and like delicate kisses they touch each bruise and each cut, checking for broken bones and hairline fractures. Sitting on the front step, his long legs curl around the small figure like a shield. Sherlock's green yes flick to Mycroft's face accusingly.

 

“Your people were _late_. How in the hell were they late when they were supposed to be here before _I_ was?”

 

“And _you_ brother, are bleeding from a split lip. I've already spoken with my men... it seems the turning of shifts made the next team get caught up in this storm.”

 

He gestures at the wind that whips at their coats, sending freezing snow down Mycroft's spine. Sherlock's been in it for much longer, already his hair is more white than dark black. Behind him paramedics rush in and out of the house, one or two occasionally trying to pry John from Sherlock's grip-

only to cower away from the look he gives them. It's the Holmes' glare, the one that Mummy used when she had first caught Mycroft smoking, and later when she had caught Sherlock doing the same. The one he used to settle arguments within his government group, and the one his younger brother until now had only initiated for selfish reasons.

 

“The finest spies in all of England, and they get caught up because of _snow._ ” His brother spits, and a little bid of red comes away from the cut on his lip.

“ _Typical._ ”

 

Sighing, Mycroft accepts his brother acidity and nods over to the ambulance, where a pale girl tucked into a sheet against the snow is being loaded up for transport. She's unconscious from the looks of it, an oxygen mask covers her face, but the medics do not seem to be rushing too quickly. He seems to have missed most of the action then, if Harry Watson was already stable enough to be treated in a more relaxed fashion. Without turning to look back at him, Mycroft murmurs the obvious thought that's obviously been playing around in his brother's mind.

 

“He needs medical treatment Sherlock. You have to give John to them.”

 

In response the young man simply tightens his grip, jaw clenching so tightly that Mycroft was certain he was in danger of cracking molars. He can see the inner fight inside Sherlock, deep in his eyes. On the one hand, he knows that the raspy sort of breathing that coming out of John's mouth isn't good, and that his bruises though not fatal should be checked. There was also the possibility of concussion, and as his fingers tightened for just a brief moment around those now sticky blonde curls, his hands came away with blood.

He did not recognize the feeling in his chest, but he knew he didn't like it.

Didn't like the _humanity_ that seemed to be filling him at an alarming rate.

Shifting slightly so that his hand whips out and grabs a paramedic by the sleeve on their way out from the house, he yanks the frightened man down to eye level. Green eyes piercing wide brown. Mycroft knows from past experiences as children that when those eyes are that close to you, it is very easy to forget you're in a safe environment, that nobody will hurt you. You feel exposed and stripped down to your very core.

 

“Take care of him. _Don't. Be. Stupid._ ”

 

As he passes the blonde figure over, his elder brother can't help but notice that for the first time in about a week Sherlock is deadly sober. The snow falls harder, and Mycroft opens his umbrella to ward off the wintry flakes.

His brother calls to him distantly, already heading for the sleek black car that has pulled itself into the Watson's driveway.

“Oh, and Mr. Watson may need to be carried out on a stretcher. He seems to have suffered mutiple falls down the staircase.”

 

Lips twitching, Mycroft's voice is dry.

“Just how many is multiple?”

 

“I'm not sure. Lost count after fifty.”

 

Without another word, those dark curls disappear inside the car, and Mycroft gets the distinct impression by the slam of the door that his back seat will stink of cigarettes tonight.

 

 

*****

 

Sherlock is currently breathing in the smoke, watching the cigarette end burn brightly as he draws deeply, eyes fluttering closed as nicotine unleashes a warm tingling over his skin. Pale skin luminescent in the dimness of the car, he watches the snow falling outside, getting worse by the minute as it sends thick white flurries over everyone. Obscuring everything.

All sight and all noise.

_Like John. John obscures things. The lines I used to have were so clear before._

 

He needs it, needs it to stop some of the pulsing adrenaline still thrumming in his muscles and making his jaw tense painfully. Needs that obscurity now, because his minds running over the details again and again of what he witnessed, what he did back there. Refusing him the peace he needs, refusing him the simple right of living in the present. His hands curl into fists, and Sherlock Holmes remembers every single detail in full colour.

 

He wishes he could lie to himself and say he still felt numb like he had back at school.

Before when that numbness had seemed boring, he didn't know just how _hot_ his chest could burn in anger.

 

_The car purred under his grip, like an old friend knowing each of his every needs. Sherlock doesn't think as he steals his brother's car, doesn't feel any remorse as he rather unceremoniously shoves the driver out into the cold snow and pulls out of the parking lot, tires screeching. The rear-view mirror reflects his eyes back at him, wide and panicked. Hidden under the mask of ice. Never letting that mask crack. He hears his brother shouting behind him, but it's too late as his hands fumble around the ignition, letting the car roar to life._

_Briefly, Sherlock smiles._

_There was a reason his driver's license had been revoked, and Lord knows it wasn't for being clumsy. Without thought or reserve, he hits the gas._

 

_Then he's flying across the road._

_Fleeing._

_Chasing._

 

_Strangely enough, it doesn't feel fast enough as his brain already leaps ahead and calculates what is happening to John._

_There's the taste of burnt rubber, cooled by ice._

 

_His back wheels swerve perilously as he turns into the highway, merging forcefully and viciously so that all around him shrieking horns wail at him. Faster._

_Faster._

 

_A part of his brain wonders why he's risking his life on the open road, all for someone he had only just recently denied existed. He had deleted John out of his mind-palace in a fit of irritation, but it seemed this was one room that he simply could not erase. Instead he tried padlocking it, but there's a pounding behind that door now, demanding attention._

 

_**Let me out!** _

_**Sherlock I know you can hear me! Damn it you idiot you're going to hurt yourself-** _

_**watch out for that car!** _

 

_Narrowly swerving around a trashy BMW, a bead of sweat trickles down the detective's forehead. It's been a while since he drag raced let alone drive, he was a little rustier than he had hoped._

 

_**Sherlock! We're friends!** _

 

“ _Shut up John. I need to save you. It's your fault that I have to do this-_

_if you had only stayed put!”_

_He mutters out loud, turning on the radio and letting it blare heavy metal to drown out the noise in his mind. Everything fell into pieces now that his heart was pounding, forcing oxygen into his brain and giving him an all-natural high. He cuts someone off at the next exit, car sloping down the man-made hill and out of the heavy traffic. The snow made everything ten times slower-_

_Sherlock could hardly see the fuzzy outlines of people dodging him in the streets._

 

_It's a wonder he doesn't hit anyone until he makes it the little town just past Uxbridge._

_As he pulls alongside the little picket-fenced houses, he is distinctly reminded of a scene out of some fairytale._

_Sherlock makes deductions even as he reads the street signs, having memorized John's address by heart._

_He tries not to let it get to him that the piece of information had once been locked behind the padlocked door in his mind._

_Things were slipping past his security, apparently._

 

_**That house belongs to a single Mother, daughter probably about John's age and a son who's only four. Husband died recently, roof has been left to ruin.** _

 

_**That house belongs to a doctor, a good man, prone to alcoholism but not violent. Just happy.** _

 

_**That one's abandoned, at one time was a farm....** _

 

_On and on he checks each area off his list, his never-ending mental list. Concluding. Checking. Re-examining._

_It's a quiet town._

_It should be peaceful._

_Should've been._

_Would've._

 

_When he pulls into the house, Sherlock all but leaps from the car._

_He doesn't have to read the signs to know something is wrong. Even from out here he can hear the shouting, muffled by the snow. His shoulder stings when he rams it against the door, opening it with a large **CRACK.**_

_What he sees in a single second, it makes the padlock comes undone._

 

_**Blood.** _

_**Blood from the girl on the floor.** _

_**She's dying, breathing is difficult.** _

_**Should be dead by now, loss of blood is too great.** _

_**Self-inflicted wounds from the knife patterns.** _

_**Holding a makeshift cloth.** _

_**Still breathing.** _

 

_She looks at him with half-closed, dizzy brown eyes._

_Lips moving silently, he knows what she's mouthing._

 

_**Save John. Save John!** _

 

_**It hasn't been changed. Someone had been trying to treat her.** _

_**A scuffle.** _

 

_And then, his thoughts freeze as he looks over as sees the man that crouches over the shuddering form that seems too small to be human, reaching back his fist for another strike._

 

_**John.** _

_**JOHN.** _

 

_That shock of pale blonde hair, matted with blood._

_Shouting, Sherlock dives at the man before he even has time to react._

_What happens next is a blur of fists and shouting._

 

_Sherlock is bigger than Mr. Watson, taller by far and far more agile. He leaps like a panther onto his back, wrapping his arms about his neck and dragging him off of John. Rolling onto the floor the two part as the teenager goes crashing into the wall, knocking off picture frames, their glass covering shattering. Staggering to his feet, the older man sneers, rubbing at his jaw where Sherlock just struck him. His nose is broken, it bleeds freely. A moment of fierce pride fills Sherlock as he realizes that John hadn't just gone down without a fight._

 

“ _Who're you, his fag of a boyfriend?”_

_Growling deeply, Mr. Watson tries to rush the teen and slam his face into the floor. Sherlock, nimble and quick thinking, rolls and pulls on the shag carpet the man's standing on, listening to his fall with a satisfied “Uff!”_

_Then he's on top of him, punching and striking, his fist connecting with the man's jaw. Each time he strikes, Sherlock feels a little less angry._

_A little less furious at John._

_A little less irked by being forced to emote._

_A little less afraid that his friend's still form meant something he didn't want to think about._

 

_Letting that fuel him on, he doesn't hold back as he snarls into the man's face._

“ _Big words coming from someone weak enough to attack his own children! What's the matter, feeling insignificant since you're wife killed herself so she didn't have to live with you?!”_

 

_Blue eyes glowing because he knows he's right, Sherlock listens to the man's gurgles of protest. He feels a cold sort of blood lust in him, as if he would very much like to make this man_

_bleed._

_Burn._

_Hurt._

 

_Leaning in so he's inches from the man's ear, Mr. Watson shivers at the shards of ice in this man's voice._

 

“ _This is for taking him away. May you know that if you **ever** touch either of your children again.... that I do **not** play on the side of the angels.”_

 

_And then, the stair throwing had started._

 

Opening his eyes, Sherlock shuddered just a little as he realized he must have looked like a pale-face demon come to exact righteous revenge. He smiles at the morbid thought, knowing somehow John would have laughed if he were here beside him. The grin fades as he remembers just how truly broken the body had felt in his arms, how a tiny whimper had been extracted from the teen's lips upon contact.

He hadn't known.

John had been so lost to the pain that when he opened his blackened eyes for just an instant, he didn't show any sign of recognizing Sherlock at all.

 

Taking a final drag, Sherlock tosses the cigarette out his open window and turns up the collar of his now blood-soaked coat.

He wasn't sure what he was going to do when he saw John Watson again.

Possibly yell at him for being so stupid.

Also possibly react in some unexpected way.

 

The now unlocked room inside his mind whispers greedily, recording the way his hair and his face had felt in Sherlock's hand.

He truly was a despicable person, wanting to memorize John even when this was such a horrible memory to have forever. Though he couldn't help it.

 

Sherlock had learned too easily with his Mother that the day you stopped recording someone's existence, the day you take their presence for granted, it would be the day they disappeared from your life forever.

Mycroft's voice cautions him in his mind.

_Caring is not an advantage._

_  
_Yet today, it had given Sherlock the strength to nearly beat a man to an early grave. The thought makes him smirk, chest squeezing tightly.

He still didn't believe sentiment was something to be sought after..... but he supposed admitting that the emotion he had been unable to name up until this point was  _sentiment_ over John was perhaps not such a bad thing.

The scary thing with emotions, is that once they were turned on towards someone, they were very hard to shut off. They became addicting to have, like the sweetest drug or the most alluring smile. Curling into a ball in his seat so he can smell a mix of blood and leather and smoke, Sherlock just prays suddenly that he hasn't made a mistake in letting his heart wander free for one person.


	22. A Christmas Full Of Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> avast! there be shameless fluff ahead! :3 so with the seriousness of the last few chapters, I figured this would be a short but sweet break.... enjoy!
> 
> Also, since I didn't mention it before, Greg lestrade's song on my playlist is "how you remind me" by nickelback ;3

“ _This is how, you remind me...”_

 

Gregory Lestrade hums under his breath, pulling his shirt over his head wearily. It's sticky with sweat, clammy because he's just gone to the gym and spent the last twenty minutes walking back to his apartment. Winter had been a bitch this year, and already he can feel droplets of snow turning into rivulets of water down his bare back as he flops onto the bed in just his jeans and groans. Every muscle aches because of the change in the weather, and the teacher wonders ruefully when was it that he had blinked his eyes and become old.

Thirty five was much too young to feel like you could just sleep the rest of the day away.

 

Sighing, he rolls over onto his stomach, fishing in his pocket for his phone.

There's only a few contacts, his Mother.... his sister.... an old colleague.... he used to have Lily's before they'd split up.... and Tina's.....

Really though in his eyes, one stands out.

A small smile curls to his lips as he sees he has a new text message.

It's funny, he thinks, how something so simple can relieve some of the ache in between his shoulder blades.

If someone had told him he would one day be in a relationship with someone almost twelve years his junior, let alone another man, Greg Lestrade might have laughed out loud. If you had told him later on he'd be dating a _Holmes_ man, he might've punched you straight in the face in indignation.

As it was, it was strange looking into his lover's eyes and realizing sometimes how _young_ My truly was, because most of the time Lestrade felt like a teenager around him. He carried himself with the posture of an old man sometimes, which made the teacher laugh because it was like putting a kitten in a tiger's cage. Except this kitten actually had claws, granted he had only seen glimpses of them in the shadows.

Greg knew Mycroft didn't see any real issues with their age difference, which was something he was grateful for. The fact that they were fairly secretive about their relationship was mostly out of Greg's request, in a small attempt to protect My from people who would look down on him. He knew it was foolish, but having grown up in rough streets as a kid, he new people didn't really grow up and mature. They just got better at driving their knives in places people wouldn't notice. He kept his relationship a secret from his students, and from most of the school. Though he knew his lover was perfectly capable of decapitating someone when he was angry, he also knew Mycroft could be almost vulnerable when others judged him prematurely.

It was a side he hated to show to anyone but him, something that makes Greg foolishly happy and sad.

 

_**My brother's gotten himself into trouble. So has John.... Still, I can't help but think your choice was right in the end. -MH** _

 

Thumbs gliding over the illuminated screen, he's quick to text back. Worry furrows his brow at the thought of the pale blonde boy that sits in his class second to last period. He genuinely liked John, he was a good kid. Did his homework, worked hard. It was a shame that he came from such a rough home. My had filled him in on most of the details, but he had been able to tell the moment he had first seen those haunted blue eyes.

He knew them because his own gaze used to shine with that kind of fear.

 

_**What's happened? Christmas break just started any they're already in trouble?- GL** _

 

After a moment, the screen blinks with a response.

 

_**John's sister tried to kill herself. Not a very Merry present. John's been hospitalized.- MH** _

 

The teacher's eyes close in pain, and he runs a hand through his short silver hair.

Damn.

This would definitely put a wrench in everyone's holiday. His heart goes out to John in that moment, and surprisingly to Sherlock. Though a part of him hates that smug brat's grin and the way he flounces about like he owns the entire school, it must be hard to watch your best friend break down. In Sherlock's case, it was quite probably his only friend. He wishes he didn't feel the sharp pinprick of regret. If he had come up with a better plan, this might have been avoided. Responding, he's quick to make sure his lover is okay and safe. Fear makes his chest clench just a little. My had a dangerous job sometimes.

 

_**Do you need me to come see you? Are you okay?- GL** _

 

_**I'm fine. I don't want you to worry..... -MH** _

 

Frowning, Greg doesn't let Mycroft go with just a hedging bluff. He knows him too well by this point to let him do the run around with him.

 

_**My..... What's wrong?- GL** _

 

After a moment, he texts back. The light blinks cheerily. There's a long pause where Greg just reads over the text, surprised at the painful honesty.

 

_**Despite all my power and all my authority.... I couldn't keep anyone safe. I was so sure I could handle things.... and I let my brother and John down. I let John's sister down. Due to my incompetence people nearly died....- MH** _

 

Something in Greg's heart twists painfully, and he types angrily into the keys.

 

_**My don't. Stop punishing yourself over this. Everyone's fine. They'll be fine. Stop. -GL** _

 

There's a doubtful sort of pause, in which the man can picture his lover's face. It would be a mask of calm, but he'd be able to see the pain.

The warmth underneath the ice man that so few became acquainted with. From when he had first met him, that was what Greg had first admired about his My. The strength he had to remained composed even when inside he was screaming.

When Mycroft finally texts back, it's to change the subject.

 

_**Gregory.....Would you..... like to stay at my place for the holidays?-MH** _

 

Blinking in surprise, the man's mouth parts a little in shock. Then he grins widely, typing back with hesitation even though in his stomach there's a sort of warm bubbly feeling.

 

_**Sure your brother won't mind when he finds out about us? There's going to be a lot of people if both John and Harry are staying over too.-GL** _

 

When Mycroft texts back, he can feel the amusement.

 

_**I doubt I've really hidden anything from my brother. As for space, the manor is quite frankly gigantic. There will be plenty of room. After all, what is Christmas without family to enjoy it with?-MH** _

 

He laughs at that, staring out his balcony skyline with a sort of wonder-struck expression. Outside, the snow fell heavily, dusting everything in pearly luminescence. It glittered like tinsel, and Greg is reminded strongly of when he was a kid, decorating his house. He can almost smell freshly baked sweets in the oven, and hear the laughter of many people sharing warm wine and good food.

When he texts back, there's a wicked dancing in his soft grey eyes.

 

_**Make sure our room is soundproof. Make no mistake, I'm not taking my hands off of you.-GL** _

 

When his lover replies, the man blushes a little with happiness.

 

_**An extra Christmas present for me then. I can't wait.-MH** _

 

Gregory Lestrade has been divorced two times.

None of his past relationships had ever made his entire insides burn with want like a few simple words from My could. If he wasn't so in love, he might have smirked at how he had become so thoroughly whipped. People could say what they like, but in their relationship, he was loath to admit that Mycroft Holmes had the wheel.


	23. Recognizing Oneself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so if you are wondering the violin piece Sherlock's playing is called "Elements" by lindsey Stirling. If you're not too lazy look it up and listen to it while reading, it's worth it I promise :P
> 
> Here we go!

_Where am I?_

 

John thinks this with a sort of distant confusion, the floating darkness about him seeming endless and vast behind his closed eyes. It stretched on and on in his mind, his body just simply rippling a puddle in a vast ocean of black. He could not see, could not open his eyes.

Could not feel.

 

Yet, he could hear.

 

He could hear the steady beeping, telling him that he was alive. That he hadn't been murdered on the cold floor of his own home, so that was something at least. It also meant that he had been hospitalized, something that sent panic and guilt flooding through his chest.

Someone had saved him.

Someone knew.

He never prayed so hard in that moment that some way, _any way_ , it had been Mycroft and not one of the neighbours.

 

When he hears the soft lilt of a violin, it seems to be both infinitely wonderful and horrible at once. Body rising from the dark water a bit, he calls out silently the name he both dreads and wants.

 

_Sherlock?_

 

From how close the melody is, he can tell the teen is inside his hospital room. Pinpricks of light begin to break through the black, tingling working it's way up John's arms. Whatever the hospital has given him, it's beginning to wear off slowly.

The tune the man plays is at once achingly sweet and blindingly fast. It consumes John, pulling him from the blackness. A part of him reaches out for the passion behind each note, and another part shudders away from it. John knows if he wakes up he'll remember everything that happened. Knows that if he dares to open his eyes, he will surely feel every ache, every bruise that lines his body. Still the song calls him, demanding his attention. He can feel the silent fury in the piece, the noiseless sadness. Deep under it all is an all-controlling emotion that John can't hope to begin to name.

 

_He must be enrapturing the entire hospital floor right now. Such a show off._

 

The thought makes him smile in his mind, and he feels his lips twitch in response. With the movement the violin piece abruptly cuts to a halt, and he hears a chair being knocked over as someone rushes to his bedside.

 

When he opens his eyes almost regretfully, Sherlock is inches away from him. Those luminescent irises are wide and cat-like as they stare only a breath away from John's face. For one second, the teen can't remember how to breathe. Horrifyingly enough, his heart monitor spikes.

He manages to stop Sherlock before he dives for the call button, grabbing his tailored sleeve while using his other hand to clutch his chest with a wince.

 

“I'm all right!”

His harsh murmur is met with surprised silence, and he lets go of his grip too quickly for one to see it as casual. For a second neither of them speak as John stares hard at his hands in his lap, Sherlock watching him with an unreadable expression and an arched brow, his violin and bow still clutched in one hand. The only noise for a little while is the blonde youth's heartbeat, thrumming dutifully.

 

_BEEP._

_BEEP...._

_BEEP...._

 

Then, the dark-haired teen opens his lips to try and break the ice.

“John-”

 

“ _Don't._ Not yet..... I'm.... remembering...”

 

His breath hitches, leaning forward so that his knees curl up at his chest. With the movement comes pain, the twinge of stitches. One in his leg, a few in his side. Some in his hairline, because when he grits his teeth he is met with the aching pulling sensation just at the crown of his head. John _was_ remembering. The images flickering in his mind in short, sharp and painful bursts.

 

_The snow outside._

_How loud the door had slammed open._

_Harry falling into his arms._

_Her face so white...._

_Then he's spinning, being hit again and again and sent flying._

_Like a rag doll._

_Like a bottle rocket unleashed in a rubber room he can't stop his mind from spinning out of control, can't stop it from becoming like a live projectile that never rests too long in one place._

 

He is intensely aware then that his friend is gripping his wrist, his long fingers at once too hot and too sudden, trying to say something to him. It's all white noise to John. He can't breathe properly. He's burning inside.

He's going to vomit.

Something inside him trembles. Threatens to break.

 

_Harry...._

_**Harry....** _

 

_**So much blood.** _

 

Oh God.

He barely even notices when he tries to rip the IV out, struggling against Sherlock's unmovable figure. The violin drops with a loud CRACK on the tile floor, but neither of them seem to notice. The dark-haired teen becomes a wall, trying to force John to sit back down even as he fights weakly, eyes wide with panic.

“Where is she?! What happened oh my God- Harry!”

 

“John!” Sherlock snapped in his ear, grunting with effort even though he was much taller and at the moment stronger than the pale boy before him. Even though logically from the amount of morphine being pumped into his system by the machines all around him John should be as strong as a newborn infant, his sheer desperation makes him difficult to subdue. Gripping his shoulders finally and wrapping his arms vice-like around him, Sherlock all but shouts into the teen's ear. His patience wears thin with this kind of fighting, plus he's honestly afraid of how hard his friend's heart monitor has spiked.

Nurses would be arriving soon if he didn't stop this.

 

“Dammit John she's _all right._ Stop! You're ripping your stitches! _Harry is all right!”_

 

Pressed to the inside of Sherlock's neck, John gasps and inhales not blood like he half expects, but a different smell.

The scent of another human being, the smell of chlorine and the dark heady scent that made up his best friend and adrenaline and just a little bit of mint from toothpaste.

Cigarettes and fear.

Rage and violence and calm and the unbelieveable pressure that's building up in his throat.

He can't help but inhale deeply into the crook of that neck, his entire body shuddering with the motion. Every muscle screams with electricity as he suddenly realizes that _Sherlock Holmes is pressed right against him._

And then, because every part of him is one massive bruise, he thinks

 

_Fuck that hurts!_

 

And shoves him away with a small cry, curling onto the bed and gasping. Sherlock, immediately recognizing what he's done, crouches beside the bed and looks as though he wants to touch John, to ensure he's all right. He's unsure how though without causing more pain. After a moment, through gritted teeth, his friend smiles weakly.

“S'all right. I'm fine.... just... just give me a second.”

 

Seeing the wounded look in those pale blue eyes, Sherlock feels the familiar burning tight in his chest. He immediately deletes the image before he can store it away.

_Erased._

_Gone from the John room.  
_

_  
_The fact that the room had now been dubbed with a name does little to soothe his irritation.

He doesn't want to remember his friend like this, so defeated and small, when he already had so many images where John was stronger than any other person he had ever known. He keeps this revelation to himself as he watches, concerned that his friend might leap at him again. It's clear by John's tight breathing that he is more than a bit not good right now, despite his claims.

He can't help but analyze him as he waits for the teen to calm himself and become stable, making a mental check list of injuries that still had yet to heal. When John had first been hospitalized, his skin had been more purple than pale. Now things were beginning the slow healing process into mottled greens and yellows, some of the swelling going down around his face and jaw.

 

_Tired._

_Nervous twitching, a symptom of stress._

_He's avoiding my gaze, he wants to talk about something but is unsure of how to start._

_What is it?_

_Ah._

_How did I find him._

_Simple enough deduction._

_His breath is ragged._

_Heart is still skipping. Worry for sister and from the way his jaw is clenching something else._

_Fear?_

_No._

_Guilt._

 

 

Closing his eyes so he wouldn't feel the man's piercing gaze beside him, John gets a moment to collect his thoughts. To understand where he stood right now. To make a mental check of all of his extremities, and to fully appreciate that he's alive and breathing, because a part of him had once thought that he wouldn't be coming back.

Ever.

_You're still breathing._

_Harry's okay...._

_You're alive and Sherlock's here...._

_Even though you promised to yourself you'd avoid him..._

_He still came..._

 

He's ashamed of how much his heart rises at this thought. Like floating on a warm ocean. Then it sinks again as he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and trembles. The sharp intake of his breath is the only noise in the patient silence, and like a good friend, Sherlock doesn't break it with any words or any murmurs of relief. If he had said anything at all, had offered any words of pity or solace, John wouldn't have been able to hold back the sobs that claw at him deep in his gut.

 

_Harry...._

_Oh God Harry please tell me it's not true...._

 

“That bastard. That _fucking_ prick of a son of a bitch. I'll kill him. I swear to God, if I ever see him again-” And then he can't hold back the curses, he shouts them viciously into the palms of his hands, biting down on his knuckles so he doesn't scream them loud enough for the entire hospital floor to hear. He can't stay here, John Watson has to _move._

 

Guessing where his thoughts are headed, Sherlock moves to the call button at a lightning-fast pace.

“So help me John if you do not stay in bed I _will_ have them restrain you.”

 

His friend's eyes blaze like fire, and even though he knows Sherlock never bluffs about anything when he has that glare on his face, he can't help but have his eyes narrow dangerously.

 

“You wouldn't.”

“Try me.”

Is his grim response, jaw setting in a stubborn line.

 

The thought of being chained down, of having restricted movement and being only able to stare at a cold and lonely ceiling...... The thought of having to deal with that kind of humiliation and defeat is the only thing that makes the teenager reluctantly lie back down, wincing at his wounds. He really did feel like crap..... though he would never admit it.

Glancing wearily over, he realizes Sherlock is swaying slightly on his feet as well. He picks up the violin that's been left lonely and abandoned on the floor, eyeing it with meticulous detail in search of scratches or broken strings. Finding none, he slumps down into the chair beside John's bed, eyes closing in exhaustion. It's then that the blonde teen sees just how truly drained the detective is. His chest clenches, and even though he is frightened of Sherlock because of his unpredictability and his harshness and because he pulls all the wrong feelings out of John, he reaches out to touch his shoulder. It's only the lightest of encounters, but both boys jump slightly at how much they've both _missed_ that contact.

Voice soft, John is the first to acknowledge the gaping canyon that seems to be straining to reseal itself between them. He realizes he's been stupid these past weeks, almost unbearably so. It's really any wonder that Sherlock didn't leave him. It was a miracle he still cared enough to save him. And that's what had _happened_ the teen knows deep in his heart.

Sherlock had saved his life tonight.

Saved the life of his sister.

Avenged him, judging from how his eyes had sparked when John had spoken of killing his Father.

Done everything nobody else had accomplished for him in only a matter of moments.

He owed this man everything...... Yet he was looking at him like _John_ was the one who deserved an apology.

 

Though he also knew that to make Sherlock Holmes apologize was like demanding the mountains bow down.

When he speaks, his voice is rough.

“How did you....? No I know. You're a genius....”

 

He watches the teen's high cheeks lift in a small smirk.

 

“Well admittedly, Mycroft did help.” He says this stiffly, like the thought disgusts him. He doesn't move away from John's hand, yet doesn't quite acknowledge it either. Picking away at his violin strings, his arms are littered with little marks. There's a sort of simmering pout there, as if he's restraining the urge to shout at John. Though he keeps a good mask of cool, his friend picks up on the signs of an incoming storm.

Cocaine needles.

He's been back at it again.

The blonde teen frowns.

_Dammit. I've really fucked this up. He's actually angry. Downright furious. The only reason he hasn't started shouting is because he's afraid he's going to upset me. And I can't tell him off, because I wasn't **there** to stop him. Why was I so stupid? Just because I lo-_

 

and then he cuts off that thought, lets it die violently.

No.

Not now.

Don't you go down that road.

 

Sometimes it helps, as painful as it is, to remember the way his Father absolutely hated even the thought of either of his children being gay. It at least instilled enough fear in him to move his hand aside and get his shit together long enough to prepare himself for the arguing about to come. He might as well rip the band-aid off and let it bleed. At least then the wound would heal.

 

Sighing, he leans his head back on his pillows and stares resolutely at the ceiling.

“Just say it Sherlock. Say what you need to say because I won't break and I'm not some fragile little child. I know it's killing you, but I'm not your brother, I'm not the public and I can take your rage.”

 

His friend whips his head around and glares at him with a snarl, like he very much doubts it.

In return John smiles angelically, waving for his friend to go.

To run free.

To erupt.

 

And like bursting a dam, his friend obliges in a spectacular explosion of language that's so colourful it'd be enough to make a sailor turn red. It's almost physically terrifying, watching as he all but flings a chair halfway across the room. John shrinks into his bed covers, eyes wide as he sees Sherlock become genuinely monstrous in stature.

 

“ _Idiot! You could have died! You almost fucking died and you just smiled at me and left our room and left me to assume the worst!”_

 _  
_A chair is thrown halfway across the room, creaking loudly. To Sherlock it's the physical sound of his inner screaming.

 

“ _Bound! You left me bound and you knew it and I know you knew it because your posture said everything, that we were **done** except you can't just cut things off like that.”_

“ _I have half a mind to just O.D on cocaine and see how you like it, the uncertainty-”_

 

His fists tremble like he wants to hit something, and Sherlock gasps a huge lungful of air like he's forgotten to breathe. Sweat beads his forehead, and in a final, piercing sentence, he bellows at John.

 

“ _Why didn't you just ask for help?! You stupid, beligerent idiot! Why did you make me feel so **afraid for you?** ”_

 

Then his jaw snaps shut, and those luminescent eyes widen in disbelief at his own words. His fingers fly to his mouth as if to take the sentence back, but it's impossible as it already hangs in the air.

Because he suddenly knows the emotion that's been roiling in his stomach now for weeks on end, tormenting him and chasing him to almost madness.

Now that it stares him in the face it's so simple that the teen begins to laugh hysterically.

It's to keep himself from sobbing.

 

_Of course._

 

_**Fear of losing someone.** _

 

_How could he have been so blind?_

 

Because Sherlock Holmes, for all of his genius, even though he could read everyone else, could very rarely read himself.

 

John Watson grins widely in amused confusion as the teen backs up against a wall, slumping down onto the floor as all of his rage fades away in an instant with giggles that make no sense and have no end in sight. He cards a hand through his hair and murmurs curses, even while his skinny arms wrap about his knees. He watches him, feeling like he's observing Sherlock possibly becoming cracked.

 

Trying to keep some of the ire from his voice, John murmurs

 

“There now, feel better?”

 

Sherlock glares at him, nostrils flaring.

_Feel better?_

_Stupid words. Of course I don't.  
_

However he can't stop the shining in his irises or the curving of his mouth.

He can't stop anything any more.

Not as long as this boy is in the room, laughing at him and making his emotions rip through him more than any drug-induced high ever could.

 

“I hate you.”

 

He mutters, and both of them burst into giddy laughter, flinging their heads back and staring at the dull hospital ceiling.

Sherlock hated John.

He also on some level adored him.

Some deep, deep, fully buried place in his heart, there was a spot purely for this man.

It's terrifying.

Brilliant.

The best drug he's ever tasted.

He wants to play his violin, he wants to shout and jump and solve cases and run, run, _run_ until his legs give out.

 

A second later Mycroft appears at the doorway, looking confused and more than a little bit annoyed.

“What's wrong? I heard shouting....”

 

The only response he gets is more laughter, and he watches in mounting irritation as his little brother and best friend rather unceremoniously fall apart into tears and giggles.

 

_This holiday at this rate will be the death of me I **swear.**_

__

_**  
**_That's when Sherlock's head snaps up in triumphant surprise.

"That's it.... _I've solved the Rose Laker Case..._ "


	24. The Child That Shouldn't Have Existed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo warning, talk about rape. nothing too bad, but the usual.  
> Drug references etc..... yupp.
> 
> Comment and Kudo if you like! <3

As it turns out, John's been out for nearly a day and a half.

Harry had awoken after a day, screaming from nightmares. Apparently, she had managed to attack one of the nurses quite savagely before they were able to sedate her. Nobody's been allowed to see her, since John is the only official family. Despite Mycroft's best attempts, Sherlock assures.

At this news he has to clench his fists and breathe deeply, the haze of red making seeing in front of him difficult. Unfortunately, that anger had only grown thicker as he discovered that putting any weight on his right leg was agonizing. His doctor, a Mr. Pavrati, has assured them he suspected this might happen.

 

“It's psychosomatic. We had your um.... friend in the black coat give as much medical history as he could. You had a limp before like this right? It's a response your body has to stress it seems.”

 

Sherlock snorts at the doctor in irritation as he leaves, steadying John with one hand as he now stood slowly with a cane. It's awkward, having to use a leg that's not your own to lean on. He stumbles once before he can right himself back to normal. Panting, he waves away his friend's help dutifully.

“It's fine. I'm fine.”

 

Besides, he knows that the teen beside him is almost vibrating with energy, silently begging him to ask. To have permission to tell him, to fill him in on what his brain already knows. Clutching the handle of the cane and leaning into a few wobbly steps, the two move into the sallow hallway before John smiles.

“Okay, tell me. How did she die?”

 

Eyes positively glowing even as his hands twitch for a cigarette, Sherlock begins.

“The name Rose Laker never really belonged to anyone. It belonged to someone who _should've_ existed. It was the woman's unborn _child._ Her x-rays showed she had birthed children, but we never found any family because there _was_ none. I thought it irrelevant at the time, since it yielded no information. That's it! She was ra-”

 

Seeing John's face spasm in pain, he pauses for just a fraction of a second before he very carefully treads on.

“She didn't have a relationship with someone, she had been homeless, possibly her parents kicked her out or she was an illegal immigrant. Illegal immigrant. I'm almost certain. When she lost her child, she felt emotion-”

 

“Of course she must have!” His friend interjects, scowling as they brush past a nurse. The woman flicks them a glare at the amount of noise they're making, but neither of them bother to quiet down. The twinge in John's leg becomes worse as his thoughts turned towards his sister.

 

_You have to be strong for her._

_Come on now, soldier's walk!_

_Straight back, eyes forward._

 

It helps when he pictures fighting, knocking his Father's teeth out again and again with the blasted cane that he was going to be stuck with now for God knows how long.

 

Sherlock doesn't seem to notice his friend's distraction, still too absorbed in the case.

“Right! _Sentiment._ I took it into account but not _enough._ I didn't list it in my mind as a valid _reason-”_

 

“Reason for... what exactly?”

John's beginning to have his head spin with the twisted and convoluted paths Sherlock seems to be taking, the leaps and bounds.

He stops, pressing his folded hands against his lips. His light blue eyes narrow in utmost concentration, and he regards his friend carefully. With his dark coat collar flipped up against his pale neck and his scarf wrapped about him, he looks every inch like a stereotypical detective in an old fairytale.

 

_All he needs is a deerstalker cap._

 

John thinks, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling.

 

When Sherlock speaks, it's a cold and logical tone. Some of the fever leaves his eyes, and it's like watching his mind sail away to a distant island.

Safe.

“Someone offered her a way out. Drugs. Not sex. She wouldn't have seen that as an escape.... She lost everything..... wasn't able to control the addiction.... she began to get desperate..... she couldn't pay for her fix and she didn't want to stoop to prostitution.....”

 

His eyes close, and he can picture it.

 

_The bridge._

_A drug dealer of some kind, asking her if she wanted it._

_She did._

_She wanted the drugs so badly it tears through her. The marks on her wrist-_

_Her own fingernails had done that with the depth of her need._

_The slight tear in her dress... she had stumbled backwards with need and ripped the hem in the process._

_She couldn't stop it._

_She was loosing her mind._

_The only things she had left to give were her body or...._

_Or the only thing she owned to remind herself of the daughter that never survived._

 

_What choice would she have made?_

 

_None._

 

“She never got the chance to decide. She hadn't made her last payment, and whoever it was that was dealing with her knew she had gold on her. They tasered her in an attempt to subdue her enough to mug her, but the clenching of the muscles made it impossible to wrench the watch from her grip. In the end she was dumped in the Thames, the watch still gripped in her hands. The only reason the forensic team didn't pick up on the electrocution is that she had been in there so long.... water tends to muddy evidence up somewhat.”

 

Falling into silence, the darkly curled teen opens his eyes, and sees that John is gaping at him, eyes wide. Slowly, his cane nearly falls from his grip, and Sherlock catches it automatically and steadies him. Then he watches the blonde boy's eyes squeeze shut tightly like waking from a daydream, and he sucks in a tight, sharp breath. His voice sounds almost strangled as he exclaims

“You saw.... _all_ of that from _nothing?_ ”

 

Looking away, Sherlock has no way to deal with the foolish happiness he gets from John's praise. His voice is carefully indifferent.

“Not nothing. I saw it from a pocket-watch. And because now I understand...”

 

_**Fear for someone else.** _

_A deadly motivator._

_You were the only reason I could solve it._

 

_The woman feared that her unborn daughter, if she gave the watch away, would somehow disappear. She feared of losing the one thing that acknowledged her child's existence._

 

John thinks about it, the idea of being the only person in the world that knew of a person's existence. If you loved that person, how would you describe them to people? Nobody else would ahve known that they were supposed to live, supposed to grow up and live a possibly happy life. Not a single soul would utter their name and feel the feelings you would have towards it.

_A lonely existance...._

_  
_In many ways, he felt a certain kinsmanship with this feeling. Robin was like that for him and Harry. They had been the only ones to know him, to love him. His Mother already gone before he became self-aware, his Father looking only for another punching bag. It scares him, when he can't remember that soft face, those dark brown eyes. Shakes him to his core when he wakes from nightmares and can't recall the little boy that used to watch everything that went on in their home. He had never gotten to know anything different, had never experienced enough of life to know that those four walls of their house were not the universe. That people could be _kind_ and brilliant and _gentle._ In the dead of night, John's darkest dreams were guilt-ridden over this fact.

He wonders to himself how the Mother of Rose Laker must have seen when she closed her eyes in the night. Wondered how much she must have hated herself, because she would have had to at least _think_ about it. She would have been that far gone.

After a quiet moment, he whispers hoarsely.

“It must have been awful. Given a choice......”

 

And Sherlock answers too easily, much too easily to have not been forced in that corner before at least once in his life. His expression is unreadable, and his friend finds himself wishing he could see behind that steel wall that always blocked him from seeing the teen's core.

“I'd rather be given an impossible choice than no choice at all.”

And then, because John couldn't help but ask

"What would you have chosen?"

 

His friend turns the cartilage piercing in his ear, eyes like twin thunderclouds in the hospital light.

His baritone is like a black ocean.

"Depends on the person I was trying to keep with me. Depends on the name engraved in that watch...."

 

The two say no more, and finish their walk down the twisting and turning halls.

 

 

 

Quietly, they both stop at Harry's room.

The door is closed, the number _745C_ written in dull red letters.

It's just a thin wall, but there seems to be a living tension along the hinges, seeping into the door knob as John trembles. His leg is on fire, and he's not sure he can handle the guilt that fills him. Threatens to drown him like the black waters he had at first awoken to. Breath turning shallow, he realizes that maybe he won't be able to do this.

Won't be able to face her.

Not without crying, which John Watson most definitely was _not_ going to do. Not in front of other people.

No.

Yet he knows he will.

He will want to hold Harry, to sob into her shoulder and curl against her and beg forgiveness.

Cling to her because she was his big sister, and he never forgot the times she had held his hand while he winced in pain as he cleaned himself up, or how she stepped in for him when his body couldn't take another blow.

Even though he didn't deserve forgiveness, he would ask for it because he couldn't bear the thought of being without his sibling.

He had left her alone with him.

_Useless._

He went to school.

_Coward. Fool._

She was the only family he had and he had believed her fake smiles and assuring words and believed because he had _wanted_ to.

_He was the one who deserted her._

_  
_

 

And then Sherlock is by his side, gently taking his hand in his own and turning the door-knob. The contact, the warmth is enough to melt the teen's frozen figure. Slowly, John blinks and clears his head, squaring his shoulders like a good soldier.

March on.

Don't look back.

You can handle rejection.

You're not some breakable child.

Together, they enter the room.

Both of them were surprisingly getting used to that word.

_Together._

_Not alone._

_No longer alone...._


	25. It's Okay To Be Not Okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:
> 
> this is Harry's chapter, meaning rape will be mentioned. It's not going to be fully explained (yet) but it's prominent and yeah.... so ^_^ if you don't like, don't read....

 

She sits silhouetted by the large window of her room, in a metal wheelchair that glints icily as the falling snow outside make spot-like patterns on her figure. Facing away from them, Harry's thickly curled hair falls in damp tumble-fulls down her back.

She had showered then.

 

Which meant she was at least somewhat aware of her surroundings. Beside the chair, an IV drips shimmers with clear chemical indifference as it slowly slides down the tube attached to her vein. Harry's shadow casts itself elongated and oddly stretched across the linoleum floor. Everything seems to be varying shades of black and grey. She doesn't respond to their entrance, but John knows she's heard them come in. Her fingers twitch in recognition. Grip the hand-rests with a kind of wild restlessness.

Sherlock reads what these little signs mean. Scans them, analyzes.

 

_Go away._

_Leave._

_I don't want anyone here._

_Leave me alone John._

_Leave me alone..._

 

After a beat of silence, he lets his friend step forward, a weak smile on his features. John's grin does not reach his eyes, actually he looks vaguely sick. He leans on his cane much too heavily as he limps forward.

Their shadows connect, interlock. Sherlock's is the only one that remains solitary.

A silent witness.

 

The blonde teen is carefully sure to make noise, so as not to startle the young woman before him. Crossing the room is like a careful game, as he silently begs for his sister to stop staring at the world of white before her, to acknowledge that he's here.

_Please Harry._

_Please look up._

_This silence...._

 

 

Ten steps and John can see the bandages on her wrists. Tightly bound, wrapped in medical precision. Snow white, with thin lines of red. They should be changed soon. They wind upwards, all the way to the crook of her elbow.

 

Twenty steps and he can see that she's curled her feet up into the seat, that she's thin enough to use the chair more like a bed. She's barefoot, and John can't help but wonder even as his heart thrums painfully if she's cold like that. Her eyes stare blankly ahead of her, fuzzy from drugs but not fuzzy enough that she can feign an illusion of being incapacitated. Uncertain.

Those eyes shine wearily with a constant kind of haunted pain. He finds the word to describe them as he takes a step closer.

 

_Absent._

_She's...._

_just absent._

 

 

Twenty-five steps, and he's almost beside her. A single touch away. He could reach her, perhaps pull her back from the distant shore that her irises indicate she's on. John would drag Harry across entire oceans, if she'd only acknowledge that he's here.

That she knows him.

Her knuckles tighten on the arm rests as he lifts his hand, and Harry does something she's never done before with anything or anyone.

 

She flinches, her entire body going rigid as stone.

 

It's tiny, infinitesimal. Yet when she realizes what she's done, shy away from her own brother, the dam breaks just a little, cracking so he can see the pain in those eyes both raw and real. Her hands release themselves from their iron grip on the armrests, only to clench tightly in her lap.

“John-”

 

She says hoarsely, trying in vain to apologize. Her brother looks like he's been physically struck, blue eyes wide, his hand still frozen part way between reaching out for her and resting at his side. She looks at him hard, tries futilely to tell herself that she's _safe_ and that this is her little _brother_ and that he would never _hurt_ her like that.

It's no use.

Their images just melt together in her mind.

 

_The picture before her and the picture of **him** as he had leaned in, pressing her against the wall and **God** she can smell the booze on his breath even now-_

 

And then the morphine kicks in again, and even though Harry should be terrified..... she's unable to be.

It's almost stifling,

frustrating,

relieving yet restraining.

The doctors had told her it was to help her 'cope'. Yet they had given her no choice.

Suicide watch.

The shame of being sedated almost constantly.

Every fucking person telling her that she would 'make it through this' and that 'in time it would get better'.

Harry had been living for almost nineteen years now.

Not once had things gotten better.

Instead they had only gotten so much worse.

To not be able to emote the way she wants to kills her, even though she knows that if she could she'd be a bubbling mess on the floor. Her insides burn with the misstep between her feelings and her brain.

 

Then John begins to tremble, guessing the reasons behind her actions, and she snaps back into reality.

Her father is not here.

_Stupid stupid! It's John you idiot! John!_

 

When her brother speaks, it sounds like he's trying not to cry.

“Oh God Harry-”

 

Her brother is limping again. He leans on the cane so heavily, and he has so many stitches. Too many too count. He's bruised, battered and looks so tired. Her mind whispers at her nastily.

_You couldn't keep him safe._

_The one time you could have just protected him, and you failed._

_Failed!_

_FAILED._

_What kind of worthless human are you, to force your brother to witness his own sister's death?_

 

 

and then because she can't emote enough to cry all the tears she's holding inside, because she can't crumble like a badly designed statue and get lost in all of her fear and pain, anger rises deep in her chest. Like a boiling flame it surges from her, and she can't stop herself from shouting. Harry's voice is ragged and torn as it claws it's way out of her throat, splashing the black and white room with venom and rage.

 

“ _I told you not to come! I told you in the letter! You idiot! You buggering moron! You could have been killed-”_

He steps back from her blind rage, shudders away from it like she's a towering inferno.

“Harry, I-”

 

“ _No! I don't want to hear it! None of your fucking excuses like 'we're a bit good' or 'it's fine's' because it's not. It's not **fine.** Nothing is fine!”_

 

As if to prove her point, she rips the IV from her hand, ignoring the pain that screams up her arm. She wheels herself forward, almost cornering her brother, breathing hard.

Facing him down.

In the light of the window, John can see the darkness in her eyes. The horrible, horrible realization that he couldn't just 'fix' this dawns on him like showering cold water down his neck.

Harry is so beyond broken right now he can't even see her any more in the black ocean of terror, fear and agony.

Dropping his cane so it clatters onto the floor, he slips and falls painfully to one knee.

He sees Sherlock begin to take a step towards him, suddenly active and alive from his frozen state, but John holds up one hand even while clutching his knee.

Staring hard at the shining wheels of his sister's chair, he can almost imagine the black shadows of the snow flakes outside covering them both.

Drowning them.

How long had he pretended he would survive this?

That he could take every hit and still remain standing?

Long enough that his sister had thought she was the only one falling, breaking to pieces.

Long enough for her to think she was alone in the fear that she wouldn't make it, that she couldn't be strong like him.

 

Except John never felt strong, he had always thought that was Harry.

 

He had watched her bold defiance, her loud voice and once-overwhelming presence and used to think

_That must be true strength. To be undeniably vocal and present and **there** despite everyone trying to tell you that you are nothing._

 

“No Harry. You're right.”

 

Her little brother smiles up at her, and tears fill his deep blue eyes and roll down his cheeks in the silence. Her eyes widen.

John never cries.

At least....

Turning to look at Sherlock, she stares hard at the teen who's been looking on in quiet calculation. Her eyes narrow. Those high cheekbones and aloof expression are at one maddeningly attractive and irritating. He has the sort of face of someone used to getting into trouble, and his cartilage piercing glints wickedly in the light.

Silver.

Cold blue eyes.

Not the type John would cry in front of.

Definitely not the type.

He wasn't even the type her little brother would normally befriend.

If she wasn't trying so hard to not break down, she would have chased this boy halfway to China and told him to stay away.

His lazy stare speaks trouble....

Yet when he looks at John, curled up on the floor..... Harry sees something flicker.

True concern.

 

John's talking.

_You have to listen._

_Even if you want to tune out, listen._

_Just don't cry._

_Whatever you do, don't cry because if you're brother's fucking crying and you lose it too, who else will be strong?_

 

The teen in the corner seems to answer her question silently, and Harry wonders for one moment if people could truly be telepathic.

 

_**I will. I will be strong enough for you both.** _

 

“Things are not okay. I know that. I've known it for some time.” John whispers, rocking slightly as he struggles to get back onto his feet. She aches to help him, but her entire body screams at not wanting to be touched.

She doesn't want to be touched by anyone ever again.

She feels dirty enough as it is.

“But.... I already lost my little brother, and there was nothing we-”

 

He chokes, rubbing at his eyes and murmuring _dammit_ under his breath. When she feels the little droplets of water running down her nose, Harry makes no movement to brush them away. The name _Robin_ was never acknowledged between them, a silent kind of pain. Both filled with silent regret at being unable to change the past.

 

_Robin._

_Come play with me Harry!_

_Robin no!_

_Robin Dad will get mad we're in his office!_

_**NO!** _

 

Yet now John spoke about him, and as he did he sobbed harder and she longed to hold him without the wave of nausea it would bring her.

The fear.

The memories.

_Don't touch._

_No._

_Don't touch me!_

 

“I can't lose you too Harry. I can't! Please don't make me....”

 

When his sister looks up, her eyes are wet. Shining much too brightly. Silently, she presses a hand to her mouth, lips touching the red line that marks her wrist under the bandages. She closes her eyes, as if remembering the little boy with freckled cheeks for just a moment later, his gap-toothed smile and blonde-brown hair.

The little boy that had gone and died and first brought these kind of feelings inside her, only now acknowledged by someone else.

 

_Thank you John._

_Thank you thank you._

_I wish I could tell you...._

 

How could someone tell another person though how they felt truly though when they themselves hadn't known they've been feeling that way for years?

Instead, Harry leans forward, planting the barest of kisses atop his forehead. It's only for an instant, and she feels immediately ill afterwards and like she's sullied her brother's face. Yet John smiles in such a relieved way that guilt lifts just a little, and she looks almost dolefully at her bleeding hand. The mark from the IV now trickled little red droplets, and she sighs regretfully.

“The nurse will be cross with me I suspect. Damn me and my impulses.”

 

At this point the man in the corner speaks, his rich baritone making her jump at it's depth and it's precision.

“I can fix that. I studied medical textbooks and procedures in my junior year.”

 

Taking impossibly long strides, the strange man comes to rest beside her brother, dwarfing him with his comically long figure. She looks at John almost uncertainly, asking silently if this strange teenager could be trusted. When he smiles encouragingly even while being helped the rest of the way to his feet, Harry ever so slowly raised her hand out to him.

The teen is efficient, and seems to know exactly how to touch her without making actual skin contact. When he presses the drip back in, it barely hurts at all. She blinks a little in surprise, wiping the rest of her tears away. For someone so machine-like he was incredibly gentle. Looking into those eyes, she can't read anything. They're like glass and should be empty, but instead they seem impossibly deep.

It was apparent her brother had many stories to tell her.

Many people to introduce.

 

However, it would have to be at a later time, as a wave of crippling exhaustion fills her almost immediately. The adrenaline gone from her system, Harry slumps forward. Trembling.

John looks torn. It's obvious his sister's damn well wiped, but he can't shake the feeling of just wanting to _be_ around her, to make sure she was going to be _okay._

However, Harry doesn't allow for any hesitation. Though a poor shell of her once boisterous personality, she still manages to throw them out the door with effective irritation.

“Out now. Both of you. John you need rest. And um-”

 

She breaks off, realizing she had never gotten the teen's name. He looks down at her tiny frame, smiling very, _very_ slightly. It's more of a twitch of those bowed lips.

 

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Christ. Kids on the playground must of _loved_ having to spell your name on birthday invites.”

Is her only response. Even so she grins just a little, lips turning upwards.

 

“Truthfully I didn't get invited to many.”

 

“I _wonder_ why.”

 

“ _Harry-”_

 

John interjects, but it's only half-hearted. It's obvious neither of them are really trying to irritate each other. He realizes that maybe part of the reason he liked being around Sherlock's abrasive attitude was because he had been so used to getting the same kind of sharp tongue from his sister. The conclusion that he would forever be someone's punching bag is more amusing than it should be, given the light of recent events.

 

He laughs anyway, pulling his friend out the door with him before they can cause too much trouble.

 

“Take care of 'em for me.” Harry whispers to the man in front of her, so quiet she knows John can't hear as he hobbles out the door.

Sherlock doesn't reply, but twists the cartilage piercing in his ear as way of affirmation.

 

_Yes._

_Definitely trouble._

 

Then she was alone, with only the bed she didn't want to sleep in, and her thoughts.

 

And even though now she knew John would be with her when she woke up, she still shook at the thought of sleeping. Of leaving her mind open to dreams.

 

Instead, Harry Watson wheels herself back to the window, illuminating her pale face to white and her dark curls to almost black.

Curled up with her knees against her chest, she watches dreamily as the snow drift downwards on the busy city. Cars whiz past, kicking up slush, and people walk in tight little bunches below on the streets.

So high up, they're like little colourful ants.

She presses one palm to the glass, watching as her body heat makes a mark.

 

She was making a mark.

Finally.

Someone knew she was in pain.

Someone came to help her, to save her brother.

So he could come and save her.

 

_Sherlock Holmes._

 

A mysterious sort of name.

Then again, she supposed he was in fact, a very mysterious sort of young man.

Giggling to herself, she closes her eyes and just for a single moment rests at peace.

Finally.


	26. Things Are Just Getting Started

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so what happens when my city all but freezes over and school gets cancelled? Does homework get done? Test papers get studied? NOPE.  
> instead you guys get an extra long chapter.  
> peace out.   
> *mourns possible failing grades in a corner*

 

 When Summer comes to visit, she's a storm of rage and eclectic confusion. The nurses nor her girlfriend are able to hold her back as she storms into John's room and without hesitation or thought for anyone else punches Sherlock square in the jaw. The resounding crack sounds horrible, and John struggles to sit up even while cursing his leg as he dives to try and restrain her. He had been reading a book Sherlock had brought over called “Murders Behind Closed Doors” and at first hadn't noticed her diminutive frame.

When the dark-haired teen got a hold of his bearings dazedly, he prepared himself for the next punch in the split second he analyzes her figure before him.

 

_Anger._

_Pupils are dilated with it so it's been there for some time._

_Sleep deprivation._

_Fist cocked at an almost 90 degree angle._

_**Move you idiot she's pulling back for another swing.** _

 

By this time Irene's manages to catch up to them, sweltering from her winter coat inside the hospital and arriving just in time to see her love rather ungracefully whack Sherlock over the head with her fist. Sighing, she can't help but roll her eyes even as her gaze shifts nervously over towards John.

 

_God he looks awful._

 

Since her encounter with Jim, Irene had known right away what had stopped Sherlock from going over the edge with his drug addiction like he usually did. In truth she had known the moment that man's hand had wrapped about her throat and squeezed and threatened what she held dear to her. She could have sold the two out within the first day....

 

yet it had been nearly three weeks.

A part of it was because when John had left school Sherlock had seemed to slip a bit. To stumble down a few feet of the mountain he had been climbing. A part of Irene rather nastily and desperately hoped that he and John would keep fighting, locked in an impasse, so she wouldn't have to use the contact number that simply had a little smiley face for it's name.

The contact she had never wanted to add, it had just appeared mysteriously on her phone the next morning she had woken up. Summer had found her that morning throwing up in the bathroom, and she had to make a quick excuse and say she caught the flu.

She knew Jim was not a patient man, and that she was playing much closer to fire than she should. But she couldn't help it, because despite John's suspicions of her, he smiled in welcoming even as he struggled to pull Summer away.

 

_Too trustful._

_How could he be so unbelievably dull to trust me?_

_What does Sherlock see in that stupid face?_

 

She responds with an appropriately sheepish little grin, helping pull her girlfriend from her victim. Summer complies, but only barely.

“An entire week! A week since you ran off like a mad man, leaving me with no information as to what the hell was going on!! I had to speak to the main _office_ and all but attack your brother to even find out-

John!”

 

She breaks off mid-rant, smile growing huge as she realizes who's arms hold her back. In a second she's wriggled around to wrap her arms fiercely around the teen's neck, crushing him in a hug that takes his breath away with it's force. Falling back on his ass from being unbalanced, John lets out a little squeak.

“My leg- _fuck_ , careful Summer!”

 

She pulls away immediately like he's suddenly become hot coals, inspecting him over worriedly. On the floor Sherlock sits up, rubbing the blossoming bruise just under his chin with a wince. It seemed lately he was always taking hits. Looking over at Irene, he asks in plaintive irritation

“Do I just subconsciously give off body language that screams to other people _punch me_?”

 

“I always hear _punch me_ when I look at you, but it's usually subtext.” She replies candidly, and her girlfriend grins wickedly and nods in agreement.

 

Then she's back to inspecting her friend, taking into account with distaste the amount of bruises on his forehead and around his throat. They were yellowing out, and actually looked worse now than they felt, but John could see the silent panic in her face as she realized the marks lacing his neck formed the shape of fingerprints. Hissing in a silent breath of fury, she sits on the end of his hospital bed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Out with it. What in the living _hell_ have you been keeping from me?”

 

And so, John takes a deep breath and begins to explain.

At first it comes haltingly, in jerks and false starts, then like learning to walk with his cane, he becomes more steady. If he stares hard enough, if he counts the freckles on Summer's face and focuses on the way Irene's hands fold and unfold continuously in her lap as she takes a seat on the chair at his bedside, he can get through the story.

Pretend like he's not part of it.

 

It's hard.

 

Twice Summer cries out, horrified. Three times Irene has to grit her teeth and wonder who the sadistic prick was that sentenced someone like John to this kind of life.

 

Once, when John utters softly the name _Robin_ and explains it's significance, Sherlock's eyes flash with the surprise of someone who _hadn't_ deduced that part of his friend's past. Then his face twitches into a snarl, which freezes into something so coldly venomous that nobody can meet his gaze, least of all John.

When he finishes, he sort of rubs at his face in exhaustion, feeling like every time he was forced to sit and actually _tell_ his friends he was the poster child for family issues a part of him was screaming and flinging things in his brain. He expected Summer to act like all of the nurses and supposed “therapists” that had tried to set up appointments with him ( _“idiots all of them.”_ was Sherlock's favourite phrase whenever they came to visit. They stopped trying to see Harry after she had nearly thrown her wheelchair at one of them).

Nervous, he mumbles hastily under his breath.

“Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. If... If you want to just leave you can....”

 

He should have known however that the pixie-like girl sitting and looking at him with protectiveness and anger wouldn't react like most of the population.

 

Without any fear or hesitation, she wraps an around John's shoulder, hugging him tightly and making him drop his cane again. As it clatters on the floor, she lightly bonks him on the side of the head with her fist.

“Stupid. Why would I leave? Just because things got a little bit tough doesn't mean I'm going to cow out on you. Wasn't raised that way, I have too many older brothers to be like that. Besides-”

 

And she jerks a thumb at Sherlock, sticking out her tongue at him like a petulant child. He looks at her like he would very much like to take up shooting practice again, only using her head as a target.

 

“The one I'm mad at is _him._ He's the one that made me have to walk for miles in the snow to get to Irene's apartment so I could get a ride. Right now we owe her Mom big time for letting us essentially tear apart her phone books looking for his brother's number, which in the end we only found by asking Mr. Lestrade.”

 

At this John frowns, eyebrows creasing in puzzlement.

“Why would Mr. Lestrade have Mycroft's number?”

 

Sherlock scowls, clapping his hands over his ears as he makes the quick deduction. He's suspected for some time, but hearing it coming to light out loud is at once both horrifying and disgusting.

_Boring!_

_Useless!_

_I do not need these images cluttering up my mind-palace._

 

He quickly tries to shut the door with a resounding _SLAM_ in his head, but he can't stop all of the pictures from leaking through. They are simply too potent to be completely cauterized and sealed away. He grimaces.

 

Trying to think of something, _anything_ that will make him tune out to this discussion, the calm voice from the doorway does little so soften his quickly-becoming sour mood.

 

“Well, it _is_ considered a form of affection when you know your lover's phone number by heart.”

 

Leaning on his umbrella, Gregory Lestrade looking both embarrassed and happy to be claimed by him, Mycroft flicks his cool gaze on his little brother. A cold smirk flits on his features as Sherlock tugs at his curls, wishing his damn mind wasn't so bloody _thorough_ all the time.

“Experiencing discomfort, brother dear?”

 

His only response is a disgruntled noise in the back of the teen's throat, Sherlock managing a wicked gleam in his face as he smirks.

“Funny Mycroft, I wouldn't have pictured you as a _bottom_.”

 

Lestrade turns a deep, deep red beside Mycroft, and John has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. The elder Holmes looks about ready to murder someone, though he keeps his face carefully blank.

“ _Always_ so polite in your deductions. Believe it or not though, I did not come here to discuss my sex life in front of you or my students.”

 

He flicks a meaningful glance at John, a silent warning.

_Don't make me get into **your** relationship. _

 

His brother's resounding glare is all he needs for a response, Sherlock shuts up, curling himself into a petulant ball of dissatisfaction on the floor against the wall.

Lestrade, watching the exchange, wonders just exactly _how_ he managed to at once despise Mycroft's younger brother and like him at the same time.

It was like dealing with an alley cat, he was totally unrepentant. Yet hidden under the claws and dignified swagger, there's a certain level of innocence. A softness Greg doubted anyone was allowed to touch. Watching Sherlock's eyes rest on John, he amends that thought.

_Well... almost anyone then._

_Interesting._

 

He could see elements of Mycroft in there, but it was also obvious the two brothers were opposites.

Night and Day.

Silently connected by the umbrella that his lover carries everywhere.

Wordlessly in touch by the cartilage piercing Sherlock turns irritatedly in his ear.

The thinnest of threads, but it's unbreakable.

Like steel.

 

John's mouth hangs open in shock for a moment, and he can't stop looking at the ginger-haired Holmes and slowly back to his Philosophy teacher. Lestrade is dutifully avoiding his gaze, as is Mycroft. The two men standing side by side, one could almost believe they didn't know each other. John never would have guessed they were in a relationship at all, both seem so well-versed in avoiding each other in public. Yet now looking again, he could see little things he would not have if he hadn't known.

Lestrade is just _slightly_ closer to Mycroft than what would normally be deemed as professional, his mood settling somewhere between nervous and loving and protective. In his dark brown eyes is an unknown emotion when he rests on the younger man's figure, unreadable only because Greg chooses to keep it hidden. Mycroft leans on his umbrella, but both of them are leaning almost imperceptibly towards the man beside him.

A silent form of communication.

As odd as it is, John finds in his mind it's already become official.

Like two perfectly fitting puzzle pieces coming together.

 

_It makes sense. Dear God it makes so much sense now._

 

Beside him, Summer makes a sort of noise that's a cross between a shriek and a gasp. He can almost _feel_ her bouncing up and down with excitement.

 

_This will be informational **gold** when we get back to school!_

 

Finally, John finds what he wanted to say, the words coming to him slowly.

“So.... does this mean he'll be over for Christmas too?”

 

Giving him a grateful look, Greg answers warmly.

“Yeah. My's invited me. It'll be a right festival at this rate.”

 

John grins widely at the man, glad that Lestrade looked at him no differently than he had at school, despite his injuries. Summer breathes in his ear, her voice practically squeeing.

 

“ _Omylord they have **nicknames** for each other. The entire school is going to flip a table over this.”_

 

Irene during this time has been dead silent, hardly daring to look up from her lap. She hadn't wanted to meet the elder Holmes.

No.

When she had been on the drugs, lost to them, Mycroft had helped her get clean in exchange for information on Jim. She can feel the gaze of the man now, eyeing her in silent questioning to her motives. Her knuckles clench in her lap, and she forces her breathing to be even as she meets his look with one of her own.

Clear blue against unreadable grey.

Sucking the life from her, the resolve.

 

_I can't. I have to do this. Please don't see. If you can see that I'm part of Jim's circle again, can't you see that it's all for her?!? It's only for her!_

 

“What did you come here for anyway?”

John asks easily, smile coming back. It's a real one, and though they've been rarer as of late he discovers it comes back to him without any problems. Funny thing smiles, they're very resilient things. He doesn't notice the exchange going on between Mycroft and the woman in the red coat beside him, because it's only for a fraction of a second.

Irene doesn't realize how short it is. It feels like an eternity.

 

_Don't see anything._

_I'm not here._

_Fuck stop analyzing me!_

 

When the elder Holmes is brought back to the matter at hand, he drops his penetrating stare. It takes everything in the young woman's will power not to slide out of her seat and onto the floor. Her heart pounds in her throat wildly.

 

_Safe._

_Safesafesafesafe for now._

 

She had seen what Mycroft Holmes could do, and the thought of ever being in his line of fire made her want to contemplate blinding herself with acid just to avoid staring into those unnerving eyes.

 

“I'm here because soon you will be discharged, along with your sister from the hospital. Now I've already made arrangements to have Harry enrol at _Adelaide's_ in the New Year- no, you're not allowed to object.” He holds up one hand at John's panicked protest, allowing himself a small smile at how predictable the good teen could be.

“It's the least I can do. I was supposed to monitor you, and failed you as a teacher and as a _acquaintance._ ”

 

Greg knows that's Mycroft's favourite word to use when he wanted to say

_I feel like shit because I'm your friend and couldn't help out._

 

He doesn't call his lover out on it but smiles silently to himself. Over in the corner, Sherlock huffs.

 

“But this is where we reach an impasse John. Both you and your sister have refused therapy both viciously and voraciously, and up until know I've put up with the Watson family's pride.”

 

Tapping the end of his umbrella on the floor, Mycroft grips the handle in both hands like he's wielding a sword of some kind, preparing mentally for the incoming objections and backlash.

 

“I don't need to tell you, but Harry needs therapy of some kind. And whether you admit it or not, you do as well. Emotional trauma isn't like physical wounds, I can have the best doctor's in the world fix you up and send you on your way, but you're still wounded in your mind. Your limp is proof of this.”

 

John scowls darkly, gritting his teeth.

“Mycroft-”

 

It comes out as a sort of half-growl, and for one moment Greg wonders if John's usually gentle personality might break, that he might lash out and hit something. The thought is both worrying as it is kind of fascinating.

Maybe it's from spending too much time around My, but he wonders how far this teen would have to be pushed to actually be brought to that point.

Blind anger and violence.

 

However, he never gets the chance to see if that's the path John would have chosen, because a deep baritone speaks over everything and descends the now-crowded hospital room into silence.

 

“I agree with Mycroft.”

 

Sherlock acts cool as every head in the room whips towards his face, hands pressed in prayer-form against his lips in calculation. For a moment, his older brother looks like he might fall over from shock. John's wide eyes are filled with a mixture of incredulity and betrayal.

He slams his cane against the floor, carding a hand through his blonde hair in absolute fury. His breath is a hiss, strung out with fear of being out-ruled in a decision that _should_ be his to make.

 

“ _Now_ you choose to agree with Mycroft? _Now_ of all the bloody times-”

 

“ _John.”_

Shelock snaps once, and the teen's face scrunches up in reproach at the tone used.

Sherlock stands, pacing the room lightly, not meeting his friend's eyes as he explains in crystal detail his choice.

 

“I'll be the first to stand up and say Mycroft's and overbearing, insufferable _idiot_ sometimes, but in this case he is correct. I need you for my cases to be in top condition and able to think _clearly_ while on the fieldand run without a _limp_ when we have to. Without this you will _slow me down._ ”

 

At that Summer growls at Sherlock's brute honesty, but John holds her back. His eyes are narrowed into a dangerous expression that he's not sure he's ever used before on anyone.

 

“Is that all I am to you?” His voice cuts in a chilly tone, ice consuming his anger for cold reasoning. The detective stiffens, and John knows he's sinking low. He knows where hurt this man, he's suddenly hyper-aware to the fact that if he wanted to, he could probably wound Sherlock Holmes with just a couple of well-placed jibes.

“Am I only some _partner_ that you can easily replace as soon as I _slow you down?_ ”

 

Voice rising in the silence, John's hands tighten on his cane. He doesn't flinch as Sherlock whips around, stalking towards him like he very much wants to punch him across the face. The blonde teen doesn't care, because right now he wants to hit something just as badly. The nerves of energy lie bundled somewhere deep in his gut, unfulfilled.

Burning.

For a moment the two stare each other down in a silent but heated battle, the rest of the people around them fading away as deep blue eyes bore into uncertain-coloured ones.

Sherlock's voice is clipped when he speaks. Lined with tension.

 

“You. Are. Not. Just. _A._ partner. You're _my_ partner, and I'm not going to sit back and let the best partner I've ever had disgrace himself by staying at home and watching television all because of a _limp_ that's all in his head.”

 

It was a dangerous edge they were walking, a dance neither of them knew the steps to, forcing Sherlock to admit his emotions in public. Something John normally wouldn't push him to do, but in his heated anger wanted to see. The man's dark curls tremble slightly with the suppressed emotions locked up in his face, and his normally calm demeanour has come apart as his eyes alight with feverish annoyance.

No.

_embarassment._

It was the closest thing the man had ever said to admitting he _needed_ his friend, his partner. He can see in his eyes the silent plea.

_Don't make me do this in front of my brother._

_Don't make me lose that pride._

_Don't do this John._

 

And really, the teen realized as his grip loosened on his cane wearily, what point was there in pushing his friend any further? John had already said a number of things that he knew he was going to regret later on, and from the way Mycroft was glaring at him, he had come very close to crossing some unspoken Holmes' family line. However, he wasn't going to go without a small fight at least.

 

“Rehab.”

 

He murmurs, and Sherlock blinks in surprise at the seemingly random exclamation. John leans back away from their staring match and looks at the ceiling, mouth a thin line.

“If I'm going to therapy, _you're_ going to rehab. We'll both start when the holidays end, and somehow I'll convince Harry too. No cocaine any more, and before you can argue-”

 

He cuts off Sherlock's cries of outrage with a look that, though not quite as deathly as Mycroft's, could wound small mammals.

“That means no cigarettes either. You said you didn't want to lose your partner? I don't want to lose my Detective.”

 

Behind them, Greg makes a muffled sort of laughing sound. Both teens stare at each other with fury, and he can't help but be forcefully reminded of an old married couple on television.

_They're the odd couple I swear._

 

He stops laughing when the darkly-curled teen shoots him a look, spinning around and gritting his teeth. For a moment he paces back and forth, weighing the decision in his mind.

He could live without cocaine right?

A small voice inside him sings _NO_ in bold defiance.

The logical side of him squashes it to death.

 

Watching him with arms crossed over his chest, John taps his foot impatiently. Summer snorts, getting bored with the exchange and crossing the bed to go sit by Irene and stroke her hair softly.

She's gone oddly frozen, a mixed look of horror and desperation on her features.

Nobody but her girlfriend notices, too consumed with the Holmes-Watson lovers spat.

 

After about ten minutes of this, John reaffirms his stance quietly.

“I won't go Sherlock. Not if you don't.”

 

After a moment, all the tension goes out of the teen's shoulders. He stops pacing, fists clenched. 

The Detective flings up his hands, an irritated growl rising from his throat. Picking up his jacket, he shrugs it on over his shoulders, flipping up the collar. John looks at him with a pale brow raised, unaffected by his temper tantrum.

He would not budge on this.

“Where are you going?”

 

Taking a cigarette out from his pocket and placing it between his teeth, Sherlock hunts for a lighter agitatedly.

“To have a _cigarette._ ” He spits from around the filter, glaring at his friend.

 

“I might as well use up the ones I've _got_ , considering after _Christmas_ I won't be getting any more.”

He says this with utter disgust, but John's entire face lights up tiredly.

 

“ _Thank you Sherlock.”_

 

“.....Fuck off John.” He mutters as he turns away, but it's only an automatic response. Sherlock is smiling around the cigarette, even as he estimates the amount of withdrawal pain he was going to experience in the near future.

 

_What would you have chosen?_

 

_Depends on the person I was trying to keep with me. Depends on the name..._

 

Sherlock Holmes, once renowned for being cold and calculating and _unfeeling_ actually laughed as he made his way outside.

He was an idiot for having agreed on this.

Already he could feel his mind shrieking at him, telling him to call off this whole thing.

The selfish part that wanted cocaine even now in place of the less potent nicotine that buzzes in his head.

Yet strangely, he didn't mind being stupid so long as his partner would get the help that he needed.

 

*****

Irene got the text later on that day.

Her stomach in knots, she excused herself from Harry's room. John's sister was a truly delightful person, and she and Summer got along instantly as they both shared a love for cartoons and mindless Anime.

Excusing herself to the wash room, she sat on the cold unforgiving toilet seat and read the single text message, written in curly script.

 

_**Tick-tock, tick-tock.** _

_**Find Sherly's secret to going clean soon or Your Summer might just freeze over in a flash ice storm.** _

 

_**-J.M** _

 

Breath coming faster, Irene tried to tell herself to stop, that what she was doing was _wrong._ Sherlock was _happy,_ happier than she had ever known him to be.

Worse still, John hadn't mentioned that one drunken night at the beginning of school, and hadn't judged her for it either.

It was kindness she didn't deserve, and now she was going to turn around and thank him by selling him out to a monster.

She couldn't destroy that.

Nothing should break such a strong bond between two people.

Summer would hate her for it.

She can picture her eyes, filled with hurt when she would find out.

_Why?_

_I don't understand Irene! I thought you loved me!_

 

_**I do.** _

 

But....

 

Her hands were already typing away, breaking down, sealing her fate.

When she sends the message, her phone beeps cheerily. It's sound seems too bright in such a sallow stall, to warm for such a dark message.

 

_**John Watson. His weakness is John Hamish Watson. Age Sixteen, in the advanced level classes. Now leave me alone you Bastard. It's over. - I.A** _

 

When he replies, she feels the skin on her arms crawl. She has to cover her mouth to keep from sobbing. She slams her fist against the stall beside her, and hears someone jump in surprise on the other end.

 

_**Oh no my dear. I do believe things are just getting started....- J.M** _


	27. The Woods, The House And The Library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so as some of you probably have noticed, I hint a lot at my characters' pasts but don't often touch on them too deeply unless relevant to the story. This is because I'm thinking that after I'm done this fic I will make it a series and have various stories about the character's pasts. So, I'm putting it to a two-week vote! after this story is finished, which story do you want me to begin? this doesn't mean I won't write the other's, but which should I begin with? Here are the options:
> 
> Sherlock's  
> Mycroft's  
> Greg Lestrade's  
> Harry/ John/Robin  
> Irene's/Summer's  
> or I could do a sequel fic with John and Sherlock already together and with the same characters later on in life as adults.....
> 
> Your choice! Vote via comment! :3 I will re-post this with each chapter for the next two weeks....

 

Harry refuses to speak to either John or Sherlock the day they discharge her, arms crossed angrily in front of her chest as she looked off into the distance in chilly silence. It had started after Summer and Irene had left, after she had gotten along so well with the elfin girl they had agreed that she could come over to the Holmes place for a few days at some point. They had left the hospital in good spirits, Summer tackling John in another hug and Irene offering one of her distant smiles. He wasn't sure if they would ever truly be friends, but truthfully the blonde teen was okay with that. So long as he knew the girl in red loved his friend, he was okay if he wasn't best buddies with her. So long as they could be okay.

 

The snow falls heavily outside, dusting her eyelashes and the overgrown knee-length red Christmas sweater she wears. Her jacket is open despite the chill. The sweater dwarfs her already thin frame, trailing long past her wrists and cutting off where black leggings begin. John's not sure who got her these clothes, and upon asking Mycroft had just given him a cryptic look. Still, the shocking colour of the piece of clothing is perfect in some ways. It draws attention away from the growling fury in Harry's eyes and the utter frailty of her figure.

 

They had told her she had to go to therapy.

 

Or rather, John had told her and Sherlock had watched in impassive silence as his sister all but told him he could

“ _Get shoved.”_

 

However her brother had refused to give up, digging in his heels in a way Sherlock found both amusing and slightly infuriating, only five foot seven but managing to cow his elder sister into reluctant submission. As it was, the dark-haired teen watches John lean heavily on his cane, a thousand little cues giving away his stress and exhaustion. Sherlock had been forced to leave the hospital for the first time that night, drawn to a case reluctantly by it's puzzles and John's encouragements to get out and do something.

“All that you can do here is drive me round the bend with your string-plucking and moodiness. Go outside, have some fun. _Solve_ something for Christ sakes other than the fact that my nurse is having an affair.”

 

_Sleepless night._

_He had nightmares, should've texted me._

_Instead chose to curl up and read._

_Must get him more books, he's read **A Murder Behind Closed Doors** almost three times now._

_Must be boring._

_**Boooooring!** _

 

He couldn't let onto John though that he knew his friend was utterly dead on his feet , as John was keeping up such a diligent soldier's walk as they finally see Mycroft pull up the car. He's actually driving for a change, his ginger head appearing as he rolls down the window with a faintly flushed look in his cheeks and a very un-Mycroft-like smirk. Sherlock suspects he and his boyfriend were snogging in the car, and that was why they were late.

His eyes narrow at his elder brother's too-innocent face.

Here they had been standing now for nearly twenty minutes, his fingers going numb and John's leg aching up a storm, and his brother had the gall to look like a child that had just received his favourite toy.

 

_I hate family. All of them._

 

Lestrade is in the passengers seat, and he leans over with a wide smile. His silver hair shines like a beacon against his dark black jacket.

“Get in! We wanna get there by Christmas don't we?”

 

That was the only incentive the three teens needed.

“I call the middle!”

 

Harry cried, and both boys knew she did it because she was tetchy and pissed at them still and wanted to annoy them just a little. Like nails on a chalkboard, she was sure to put up her feet and _lounge_ , still somehow making sure that the unspoken rule of _no physical contact_ was in place.

John found himself thinking much along the same lines as his friend.

 

_Sometimes I hate family._

 

The car ride was almost forcefully joyful, Lestrade demanding a certain aura of cheer and coaxing the Holmes brother's into at least attempting to talk to one another civilly. However halfway through they got into a heated discussion that no one else could hope to follow, and since Harry wasn't talking to him and Greg was trying to keep Mycroft's eyes on the road he fell into silence and stared out the window.

_Christmas._

It used to be just a word, a grey sort of holiday with no joy and no presents for either Watson child. Though they would try to give each other small gifts and to decorate a little around the house, Father nearly always spoiled it.

 

John privately hoped that Sherlock would not be wearing that scowl on his face for the rest of the break. Otherwise when Summer and Irene would come to visit they were going to find less holiday cheer and more I'm-Going-To-Kill-The-Holmes-Family-Slowly-And-Painfully spirit.

 

*****

 

“My.....This forest is downright creepy....”

 

Greg murmurs as he casts a glance outside nervously, taking in the arching trees all around them, partially shrouded by darkness of evening and snow. John is inclined to agree, shivering as he peers out the window. It had been almost a half hour since they entered _Blackcrow Woods,_ and frankly the teen couldn't wait to leave already. The trees are silent and still figures all around them, arching towards the sky in cold indifference, clawing their way against each other for supremacy. Their branches span over the car, blocking out all light and making the drifts of snow look dark blue instead of white. Cold grey fingers pierce the iron grey sky, scraping across it. John thinks if he peers hard enough into the gloom, he can see ghost-like creatures moving about in the dark. Sherlock notices his questioning glance and he mouths

 

_wolves._

 

John shudders, gripping the frame of the car a little harder.

 

“Nothing to worry about.” Mycroft says lightly, driving along the old and worn path that cuts through the woods like a curving snake. He seems unaffected by the eeriness of the atmosphere, as does his younger brother. The two are relaxed in every way, Sherlock curled up in his seat, his seatbelt long since discarded as _useless_ so he could contort himself into whatever awkward angle he pleased during the trip. John wondered if the teen as a child had walked through this forest and can picture a small, dark haired boy with a petulant pout and an oversized jacket tromping through the snow. The image is strangely fitting, and the shadowy forest seems to beckon to his pale face and high cheekbones and mysteriousness. It was clear the Holmes' somehow belonged in this kind of scene, and were used to it to the point where it barely registered on their mind any more. Like Mycroft and Sherlock were somehow part of the pack of wolves that howled to each other outside.

 

When they finally reach the clearing, the sun has faded and stars have begun to shine in the night sky like diamonds. Harry lets out an audible sigh of relief, and John realizes she must have been feeling claustrophobic, driving for so long.

 

The house itself is more like a castle. It stands alone on a hill surrounded by frozen gardens and an iron fence, and perches in a sort of overly dignified way. The road winds about it, curling in on itself to a roundabout in the front. Looking out the window, John can see that despite the cold aura of the woods behind them, the house itself actually looks like it's attempting to be cheery. Warm light emanates from a couple of different windows, and there's a bright green Christmas wreath hanging on the front door, fluttering in the breeze. Upon seeing it's presence Sherlock rolls his eyes just a little, uncrossing his arms.

“Mrs. Hudson. Always trying to brighten things up.”

 

Though his tone is mocking, there's a sort of affection lodged there somewhere deep in his throat. John suppresses a smile, turning to open his car door as the engine cuts to a halt.

 

*****

 

Inside, a rather harried but friendly looking little old lady greets them with smiles and a tray of hot cocoa and biscuits. Mrs. Hudson is a small woman, shorter than even John, but her tone is far from small when she looks Sherlock over while he shrugs off his coat and notices his ear piercing. She sets down the tray with a clatter on a side table and marches up to him, and even though Sherlock is nearly double her height, the teen flinches minutely.

All but reaching up to tug on it, she scowls fiercely at the detective, wrenching him by his blue scarf down to her height level.

“And just what _is_ this anyway? I don't understand why young people feel a need to puncture themselves full of holes! Don't even think about the consequences to their careers later on in life mind you. Do you have a job yet? Because this might be the reason you don't-”

 

She launches off in a prattling rant, and as her voice gets louder Sherlock seems to shrink into himself a little. Leaning on his cane, John chances a look over at Mycroft and actually see something akin to pity in his eyes for his brother. Beside him Greg is chuckling, and when he looks over at John they both snicker. Harry even grins, forgiving them for a moment in amusement of the situation. The mighty Sherlock Holmes, taking abuse from an old woman.

 

Sherlock seems to be taking this with a certain amount of tired resignation, patiently allowing the woman to finish her rant before he speaks. He wraps a tentative arm about her shoulder lightly in something almost like a hug, cutting the woman short as she paused for breath.

“Always good to see you too Mrs. Hudson. In regards to your questions, yes I have a job. No, I do not think I will become homeless as the likelihood of Mycroft letting that happen or you for that matter is slim to none. No I did not meet 'someone nice', I do not have _time_ for sentiment.”

 

At this the old woman looks curiously over at John, eyebrows drawing together it what can only be described as loving suspicion. The blonde teen's ears start to turn pink under that stare, and he hastily introduces he and Harry to the woman who claims emphatically that she is _not_ a housekeeper.

 

And yet strangely enough, even though this entire situation is entirely awkward and Sherlock can't seem to get John away from his little family fast enough, the Watson family feels a happiness neither of them have ever experienced before, burying itself somewhere deep in their chests. Like a little child, Sherlock takes to showing John every room of the house excitedly, running faster and faster even while minding his friend's limp. With the sound of the two crashing around upstairs, Mrs. Hudson clucks her tongue and gathers Harry's coat, putting all of them into an ornate closet. She turns to Mycroft and Greg then, and her voice is just a little bit sneaky.

 

“I think he's lying to himself just a little on that _last_ one.”

 

Beside her Harry snorts, unlacing her boots and tapping the snow off of them and onto the mat methodically one by one.

“Good luck with that. They're both thick as bricks when it comes to realizing feelings.”

 

Greg runs a hand through his hair, and then unexpectedly turns to dust some snow off of Mycroft's shoulder. His lover leans into it just slightly, and both of them remember the promise they made a few weeks before.

“You never know. Maybe this time together will change something. Goodness knows it took me almost dying for My to admit his feelings.”

 

The elder Holmes grumbles a little bit at that, but he steps in a little closer to the touch as a result. Mrs. Hudson smiles lightly, handing a mug of cocoa to them each.

 

“Yes well let's hope it doesn't come to that.” Mycroft worries, sipping the hot drink. It's sweeter than he expected, richer. He realizes it's been a long time since he's been home, scanning the elegant walls and chandeliers. If he blinks, he thinks he can remember a time when he was much smaller, much more frightened of the uncertain future of his brother and ailing Mum. Much less used to the constant drumming of his mind and how he could see things that others could not. Nostalgia coats the place like a fog, and he's sure if he picked at the walls with a fingernail the paint would peel back and reveal layer upon layer of conversations, arguments and long summer days of climbing trees and solving crimes even while being unable to solve daily problems in their household.

 

Then Greg touches his arm softly, and Mycroft is brought back to Earth. He blinks, adjusting his tie.

“Right. Mrs. Hudson, would you escort Harriet to her room? Or perhaps show her to the library if she wants to read?”

 

At the promise of books Harry lights up, her eyes shining.

“There's a _library_?”

 

In response, the old woman chuckles merrily.

“A reader are you?”

 

The teen shakes her head slowly, suddenly shy. When she gets nervous, she tugs on the sleeves of her sweater, further hiding the bandages that peek out at just the edges.

 

“No. I was... We never had many books 'round the house... Those I could find I gave to John...” She mumbles this all in a rush, blushing darkly. Those dark curls duck to cover her face, half afraid of some kind of mockery to come. She doesn't know this Mycroft very well, and though Greg seemed like a nice enough person she hadn't lived up to nineteen years without expecting people to stab her in the back unexpectedly.

True to form though, both of them don't make a big deal of it. Mrs. Hudson flutters about her, taking her arm gently, and despite Harry's initial recoil at human touch, she soon accepts it as part of the old woman's personality. She didn't mind so much with this person, so long as she didn't touch her wrists, which she seemed to be careful not to do.

Harry found herself being guided away down a warm oak-walled hallway, while even upstairs the crashing and slamming of doors continued.

“ _Sherlock slow down we have all of Christmas break!”_

 

“ _Come **on** John, don't be boring and slow down now!”_

 

“ _I have a cane you git! Slow the fuck down or I'm going to strangle you!”_

 

“ _Have to catch me first!”_

 

A large crash that shakes the chandeliers in their holdings, and Mycroft and Greg both sigh.

It was going to be a long holiday.

Still, that gave them time to keep their promises to one another.

 

Suddenly, Mycroft thought that perhaps Sherlock should take his time. Take _all_ the time he needed as he stared up wickedly at Greg's face. His lover turns bright red, and then neither of them really notices the crashing around upstairs as they are much too occupied with each other.


	28. To Hurt Or To Heal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so as some of you probably have noticed, I hint a lot at my characters' pasts but don't often touch on them too deeply unless relevant to the story. This is because I'm thinking that after I'm done this fic I will make it a series and have various stories about the character's pasts. So, I'm putting it to a two-week vote! after this story is finished, which story do you want me to begin? this doesn't mean I won't write the other's, but which should I begin with? Here are the options:
> 
> Sherlock's  
> Mycroft's  
> Greg Lestrade's  
> Harry/ John/Robin  
> Irene's/Summer's  
> or I could do a sequel fic with John and Sherlock already together and with the same characters later on in life as adults.....
> 
> Your choice! Vote via comment! :3 I will re-post this with each chapter for the next two weeks....

Sherlock pulls John through room after countless room, his green eyes wide and childlike in a sudden display of hyperactivity and intensity. Running up the stairs, no being _dragged_ up the stairs like a rag doll, his cane the only thing keeping him from being levitated up into the air by his friend's sheer force of will alone. The house was large and echoed, and he found himself subjected to layers upon layers of Sherlock's voice as he spoke in a rush, his deep baritones bouncing and overlapping atop one another.

 

“Over there was my old laboratory, Mum used to scream at me when I blew things up-

it became the most wonderful game! And over there's the secret passage to Mycroft's room, he used to wet the bed and I'd wake him up in the middle of the night for experiments to see if he'd wet it out of fear. In return he'd steal my research notes and disorganize them. ARGH!”

 

It happens too quickly for either of them to stop it.

 

There's a crash because Sherlock's moving too quickly, and he trips over a corner in his haste to open a cream-coloured door that looks like it's been left untouched for some time. Instead his head slams against the closed door, momentarily stunning him, and John's unable to hold himself as Sherlock who's been gripping onto his arm drags him down too. The force of gravity works it's wonders, and his cane goes flying.

They both roll arse over heels, John's world tipped into a thousand different angles in a split second.

The two land in a jumble of arms and legs, sprawling as the door is forced open with their combined weight. John's leg explodes in pinpricks of pain so harsh he cries aloud, gritting his teeth and clenching his knuckles tightly against Sherlock's shirt. Beneath him the his chest heaves in a cough, trying to get a hold of the air that's been knocked out of him by John's weight.

 

The blonde teen's head is fuzzy with pain, he can't totally process what's happening. Sherlock's face is suddenly very close to his, much closer than it ever has been before. He can see those long, dark lashes blearily blinking up at him, widening infinitesimally as he takes in the situation. His lips are parted in stunned surprise, and for a moment the look on his face is so wide and innocent and so _unlike_ Sherlock's usual scowl that John is caught up for a moment in the sound of his own beating heart and the way the floorboards underneath them tremble with the minute aftershocks of their fall and how _tightly_ Sherlock is holding one of his wrists, holding up his weight instinctively to keep his bad leg from smarting.

And then he feels it, the man's thumb digging into just the underside of his wrist where he pulse is pounding away, and Sherlock's eyes are pinning him in place with silent shock and John catches himself and pulls away abruptly, though his leg screams in protest. He realizes distractedly that the room they've entered is a bedroom, the side of it seeming appropriate for a young child. However, the posters that line the walls and ceiling are not child's posters. The periodic table, next to a photograph of Albert Einstein and Nikola Tesla stare and him blankly.

Judging him.

Across the room in a corner is a large futon, bent into it's couch position (Even as a kid it seemed Sherlock rarely slept) and book shelves line every available space with reading material. Heavy books, tomes and newspaper clippings, textbooks and poetry and even a few art encyclopedias. It's almost impossible to see the faded blue paint that's underneath the extreme, unorganized mess. Eyes roving over every available surface but Sherlock's figure, John realizes where they are.

 

_His old bedroom._

_This is Sherlock's old bedroom._

 

Then, he's being helped up by a strong pale hand. Substituting his cane with an arm, he can feel Sherlock's gaze piercing him, cutting him to pieces. John can't get his thoughts together, how this person scrambles any and all retorts with just a touch. Too quickly to not be seemed as rude, John's voice is sharp in the silence between them.

“You did that on purpose.”

 

The answering silence is all the truth he needs.

 

The thing is, Sherlock _had_ done this as a test. A spur-of-the-moment decision to _see_ what made him want to _touch_ John and _talk_ to him and make him _smile._ Well, not the excitement part, he _had_ been excited, and he hadn't meant to trip so _hard._ Still, the end result was about where he expected.

Yet now he knew somewhere he had made a mistake, as his friend wasn't smiling. Instead on his face was a harsh scowl and flickerings of embarrassment, and for one small moment the teen wondered if he had broken some rule in socializing that he was unaware of. He had tried not to hurt John, so it wasn't that, and though he had his suspicions about the pulse he had felt inside his friend's wrist there were actually a million reasons why it could have been racing at that speed.

At least, that's what he told himself.

A part of him had been genuinely floored when he'd felt it, drumming against his thumb.

Because it was impossible.

Improbable.

_John wouldn't...._

Where was the line where touch became uncomfortable? Where closeness became too close for most people? Sherlock usually wasn't entirely sure, since he made a habit of avoiding contact in general.

Handing the teen his cane, the lanky Detective is unsure how to respond, or how to even begin fixing things.

So he does what he usually does when difficult feelings get in the way.

 

He ignores it.

A trait of his that right now is something John at once despises and _loves._ His fists clench tightly around the handle, trying to keep from punching the man before him.

 

“This is my old bedroom....”

He murmurs softly, blue-green eyes clouding in distant memories. The two stand in the center of it all, perfectly interlocked because neither is going to give in, John isn't going to look up, and Sherlock isn't going to look away until he figures out what mistake he's made.

 

After a moment, the blonde teen speaks, his mouth a thin line but becoming softer.

“It's.... _nice....._ small and quiet....”

 

“Boring.” Sherlock supplied, to which John managed a weak laugh, some of the tension leaving his frame. John sees now that he chances a glance out of the corner of his eye that his raven-haired friend is dressed much more casually than he usually was, a soft violet shirt buttoned tightly and ending just at his elbows. His hands are resting in his pockets, and when he catches John's eye finally he lets a small smile of apology roam his features.

 

_God._

 

John couldn't stay mad at him.

It was downright infuriating, and there was only a small window that looked on to a rather frigid and dark town in the distance to distract him from his already softening feelings.

Seeing the outline of John against the softening light, his hair seems to glimmer like gold. Impusively, his friend catalogues the colour and stores it away in the back of his mind for later review.

As if sensing his resolve is wavering, Sherlock claps his hands together loudly, breaking the silence.

 

“Right! What I wanted to grab is this-”

 

Turning towards the bed, he ducked down and began rummaging through cardboard boxes of things. With his skinny legs the only thing visible, he's not unlike the witch that was crushed under a house in the Wizard Of Oz.

 

_Except this **is** home for him._

 

John thinks, and the thought sends a small pang of unfamiliar feelings coursing through him. He doesn't realize he's grinning widely until his friend sits back up, holding up a nondescript cardboard box up with a flourish. Sherlock notices his change in attitude and frowns a little, eyebrows drawing together.

“What?”

 

“Nothing.... It's just strange... you've been more open with me in the past five minutes than in months.”

 

His friend shifts uncomfortably on the floor, nervous that already he was loosing most of his guard. He couldn't help it though, it happened every time he came here. Which was one of the reasons Sherlock rarely visited the Holmes' Manor. There was something in the air-

or the walls that made him somehow drop all shields. Combined with John's presence, that tended to have that affect naturally on him, he was alarmed to discover he was bordering...... _ordinary._

At that frustrating thought, all of his defences come back up.

Immovable.

Obtuse and cold.

 

John doesn't miss a single expression, and knows with an inward sigh Sherlock was probably going to be overly sharp with him for the rest of the night.

That was fine though, because in the teen's hands was as it turned out, a telescope.

 

Which made Sherlock's tetchy attitude tolerable, as John had never been stargazing before and the thought made him want to fly.

 

*****

 

“There. Come look.”

 

Standing atop the Manor's balcony is a chilly experience in the dead of evening, especially in December. Everything at an intense angle sloping downwards, it had taken some shimmying and a good deal of good luck that neither of them had fallen off of the roof in order to get to the flat top. As it is John shivers with his hands ducked under his skinny armpits, not having time to grab a coat before this madman had dragged him along. His breath trails out like the smoke from a chimney, and mingles with his friend's before fading out into the atmosphere.

The two stand as dark silhouettes against the starry night sky, the pale moon washing Sherlock's skin out and making it look almost translucently white. It highlights the bruises on John's face, and his leg trembles a little from all the climbing he just did. At one point his friend had to almost carry him, and he was still burning a little from embarrassment.

 

Some of his excitement had faded because of it, replaced with aches and twinges all along his shoulder and legs, and all John can think now is

_This had better be worth it._

 

When Sherlock turns his dark head towards him, pulling him forward to see through the little glass, John's mouth falls open in pure wonder and amazement.

 

… _. Definitely.....Definitely worth it._

 

Thousands of clusters of diamond-like dots swirl above them endlessly, brilliant against the azure sky. The telescope was pointed towards a direct cluster, and John could see the varying sizes of the stars, and how some glimmered brighter than others.

_It's like they're dancing._

 

They shimmer and twinkle, silently conversing to one another in ways stars only could. The teen had never seen anything like it before, it took his breath away and made his shivering stop for a moment. So absorbed in the wonders of the universe, he barely notices when something dark and heavy wraps around his shoulders.

Sherlock's coat is much too long on his shorter body, it trails all the way past his ankles and is achingly warm. Neither of them look at each other, John not even lifting his head from the telescope. His friend leans against the safety rail of the balcony, eyes distant as he roves his gaze over the sky. Large, spindly hands gripping the metal spires, they tighten as Sherlock takes a deep breath and not bothering to see if John is even listening, begins to speak.

 

“I don't.... I don't mean to hurt you John. I don't, despite the fact that I do. It's hard not to sometimes, I think so _differently_ from most people.... I don't understand protocols, and I reject rules on principle.... I don't heal things, I _break_ them.”

As he says this, he is horrified to hear his own voice crack.

 

John blinks into the telescope, back beginning to ache with having been bent over so long. He doesn't dare move. Doesn't dare indicate he hears in any way. If he does he'll _scare_ Sherlock, because despite all of his bluster and bravado, the man's voice shakes lowly as he continues.

The teen wonders to himself with sadness and anger just _who_ told him these words, _who_ had made Sherlock believe all he could do was hurt. Because the Detective's voice recited that last line like a verse, like a mantra, like a _passage._

 

“And... and I think I might break _you_ soon... If things become...If I can't stop.... _Fuck_ where are my _words?!_ ”

 

He slams his fists suddenly against the bars, and they shiver in his grip as he grits his teeth. The wind whips at his thin shirt, and Sherlock Holmes stares down at his hands.

_These hands.... have hurt people.... **killed** even..... Jim was right, all those years ago... I'm better off alone._

 

Yet when he _looks_ at John, the thought of being alone again terrifies him. He can't identify the feelings that are inside him, and all he knows is that the time he had held John in his arms, _stroked_ his hair.... he had been so relieved that he had lived.

_I don't want to break you.... but I can only make sure you're **safe** when you're with me.... What do I do?!?_

 

And John, realizing Sherlock couldn't finish whatever he had started, seals off the feelings in his heart for the sake of them both and cuts off the conversation with a simple murmur.

“Dinner's going to be soon. You should eat something.”

 

Then standing with his back military-straight, he begins to pack up the telescope.

 

The darkly-curled teen feels his heart squeeze uncomfortably in his chest, and he wonders if he might be suffering a stroke.

_Unusual behaviour, heart palpations.... suppose it's possible..._

_  
_He made a mental note to read up on it later.

 

Their hands don't meet as they take the pieces apart, and they both silently agree it's for the best. Neither of them knows what physical contact will do to their heads right now, and John is personally suffering from a steady warmth in his gut that's spreading to other areas he doesn't want to address.

 

Above, the stars watch their little progression in silence, dutifully silent, yet omnipresent in their knowledge that these were just two very small teens in a very small world inside a much bigger universe.

And yet when their eyes met it felt to them like they were the only two creatures in existence, sharing a single breath of winter air.


	29. Some Secrets To Be Hidden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so as some of you probably have noticed, I hint a lot at my characters' pasts but don't often touch on them too deeply unless relevant to the story. This is because I'm thinking that after I'm done this fic I will make it a series and have various stories about the character's pasts. So, I'm putting it to a two-week vote! after this story is finished, which story do you want me to begin? this doesn't mean I won't write the other's, but which should I begin with? Here are the options:
> 
> Sherlock's  
> Mycroft's  
> Greg Lestrade's  
> Harry/ John/Robin  
> Irene's/Summer's  
> or I could do a sequel fic with John and Sherlock already together and with the same characters later on in life as adults.....
> 
> Your choice! Vote via comment! :3 I will re-post this with each chapter for the next two weeks....

 

Harry is hiding a secret.

One that only Mycroft actually knows, though she knows Sherlock suspects.

John doesn't however, and she intends to keep it that way.

Forever, if possible.

 

The secret is she refused to get any testing on her at the hospital, other than the bare minimum to treat her injuries. Which sounds stupid, even to her own ears.

Utterly stupid.

Yet....

She couldn't.

Wouldn't.

It wasn't even a pride thing, it was like the words had died in her throat, and the screams could only come when people asked her questions.

Or tried to.

So she refused testing.

Refused it stubbornly until they let her go.

 

Which meant, as she followed Mrs. Hudson carefully down the hall, the young girl flinched violently in surprise when the old woman asked the simple question.

“Dear, Mycroft asked me to get you.... well a way to make sure....Is there anything I can _do_ for you, to maybe make you less frightened.”

 

Her voice is flat, emotionless.

_Stay stone._

_Don't let yourself feel.  
_

“I barely know you. I don't want your help.”

 

Mrs. Hudson's smile is a little mysterious, and perhaps just a little sad.

“Not you personally.... but I've known other people in your... situation.”

 

She glances out of the corner of her eye at the girl that walks behind her, back soldier-straight. The old woman can tell by her walk, by Harry's determination that she's used to facing things alone. The thought pierces her heart.

_Poor dear. Doesn't know when to ask for help.... doesn't even know **how.**_

Like the defiant little creature she is, Harry determinedly resists the urge to clutch at her abdomen while Mrs. Hudson's gaze is on her, like she can feel something there.

Nothing there.

No.

Harry was sure.

She _had_ to be sure.

It was nearly impossible anyway.

Only one time, plus she had been told when she hit puberty by the doctor.... her body just wasn't good for childbearing. A fancy way of saying they didn't know the hell why, but Harry never got her period.

Ever.

It was a Watson family thing, her Mother had it too.

Except she _had_ kids, _didn't she?_

_**Your very life is proof that you really don't know anything.**  
_

 

A voice in the back of her head whispers, which makes Harry's lips tighten until they turn white.

 

They speak no more, but the old woman is relieved at the steely nod the girl behind her finally gives.

Fine then.

A test.

_Just to be sure._

_I'm not though.  
_

_It's impossible.  
_

 

However now Harry was beginning to feel a headache coming on, and she just really wants to drown herself out in booze, her thoughts chaotic.

Dark.

_Damn this woman for saying something._

_**Damn it forget.** _

_Don't remember._

_Nope._

_Nonononono NO._

 

However, even though now she's wound up tighter than a cog in a clock, their destination soon shocks her own of all thought.

All fear.

All worry.

Because....well.... _it's stupendous._

 

 

The library is like something out of a fairytale, Harry soon discovers. Her mouth falls open at Mrs. Hudson's side, eyes round and huge as she struggles to take in the sight before her. Everything shines like a new penny, with brass undertones and warm wood polish. Feeling like a pauper in an elegant ballroom, she arches her neck to see the shelves that arc around her in a semi-circle to the rafters, greeting her with a rainbow of colourful spines and titles, baring themselves to her reading pleasure. Across from her are several choices for reading seats, a white French-looking sofa greeting her warmly off into one corner, a beanbag chair of all things giving the option for sleep or lighter reading. There's tables and a music stand by a massively wide window, partially covered by a curtain. If she looks, Harry can see the beginning of a night sky touching the edges of the woods.

 

As dark as her eyes.

She can only imagine what it must have been like growing up with this kind of selection, this kind of _opulence_ surrounding someone. There had been weeks in her home that she had all but starved to death, and John had to stay home because he didn't have any clothes that didn't have holes in them or shoes that fit during his growing years. At first there is a pang of horrible guilt in her chest as the thought that there are _so_ many others in the world, living like she had. It didn't seem right for one family to hold so much wealth, when others were left to fend for themselves, to _fight_ for every last scrap of food. To _prove_ on a daily basis that they were _alive_ for a reason.

 

When Mrs. Hudson touches her shoulder ever so softly, Harry jumps out of her skin and realizes that she's gone stock still, her fists clenched into her sides. The old woman's watery dark eyes seem to shimmer from within in silent understanding, and even though everything in the young woman's mind screams at bodily contact as usual, she finds herself getting brutally used to it. Used to it enough that she can meet her gaze levelly, chin up and mouth a thin line.

 

“When my husband was convicted and sentenced to death.... I had nowhere to go. My family had all passed, and I had no job credentials, I hadn't even finished college. I was broke and bordering homeless at age fifty four.”

 

Her smile is soft, and she steps back to look at all the books. The shelves dwarf her, the lights making her silver-white hair gleam like candied floss. In that wrinkled face is the ghost of the woman Mrs. Hudson is describing, someone alone and very afraid in England. The perfect prey for the lowest kinds of creatures that lurk in London's gutters. Harry thinks she can see that woman, if she peers under the layer of steel that Mrs. Hudson seems to carry with her at all times. She tugs on her sleeves in discomfort.

“Their Mother... Violet Holmes was an extremely odd woman, to most people. Rich, but she'd often take the train instead of driving. She did not need money, yet she worked. She was often very composed, very suave and extremely skilled in networking and keeping good social graces. In some ways, Mycroft is very much like her.... She found me on one such trip to the train..... And deduced within seconds my situation. She took me in as a helper, because she got ill frequently and couldn't always pay as much attention as she would have liked on her boys..... Looking back on it...I think a part of her.... she _knew_.... that she would die soon.... I think.....”

 

Clasping her gnarled hands together at her waist, the old woman sighs like the memories hurt her almost physically. Harry watches her mutely, dark hair glimmering in the low lamplight. She can taste in the silence the way Mrs. Hudson admires, respects the people of this house, respects the walls themselves. Suddenly, her anger seems unjustified, and she looks down and away at the floor. When the old woman speaks again, it's s firm murmur.

 

“The Holmes family is many things. Insufferable. Brilliant. Rich and possibly insane. But.... none of them, even Sherlock ever turn people away if they are in need of help. They might complain, make the person's life a living hell, may even _kill_ them accidentally while trying to help, but they _never_ abandon, and they _never_ forget a favour done to them.”

 

Then she chuckles, adjusting the soft sensible cardigan over her chest. When she turns back to the girl beside her, her expression is soft.

“Don't be quick to judge dear. Not in this house. There's simply too many layers under the people here to do so. When you hear the bell, come down for dinner.”

 

Then she's gone, and Harry is left alone to her own devices. This seems to be the way with people here, to leave without saying goodbye. Which she doesn't mind, because her mind is already filled with crowded thoughts and she often doesn't remember to use manners. Now her fingers itch to begin rifling through the shelves in front of her, if only to distract her from the woman's words.

They echo, overlapping her consciousness.

 

_There's simply too many layers...._

 

Once, she had tried to cut apart her own layers, to find out why she was significant. Instead she had nearly bled to death. She wonders how many layers Sherlock would have to cut before he bled red onto the floor. For her it was been shockingly few.

Less than she could've ever imagined.

And she never got the answer either.

Why she was significant....

All she knew was that John needed her, and somehow that _made_ Harry significant.

 

She picks up and chooses the heaviest book she can find, way up on one of the top shelves. Using the ladder, she looks down at the dizzying height and feels familiar adrenaline pumping through her veins. Only when Harry clambers down, awkwardly holding the book by it's spine, does she bother to read the title.

 

_The Tale Of Kenji._

 

Interesting. She didn't think old Japanese literature would be the kind of thing Sherlock or Mycroft Holmes would be interested in. Yet she was beginning to suspect that even if they weren't _interested,_ they had at one point studied a little bit of everything. Flopping into the beanbag chair and curling her legs underneath her, Harry cracks open the first page, and becomes immersed in a time of politics and samurai and war. It's a strange thing, reading surrounded by other books. It's almost like they push Harry forward impatiently, encouraging her to finish chapter after chapter of tales and murder and intrigue. They jostle in their places for her attention, and she can almost image their squabbling.

 

_Me next!_

_Me next!_

_Sherlock loved my story!_

_Mycroft thought you were dull and you know it. Pick me instead!_

 

Truly, a lovely story....

The young Watson wonders if she could live forever in a library, with only books to pester her in their friendly way instead of people. It would be easier, than having to talk to some unknown therapist that knew nothing of her struggles or life.

She ignores where that thought heads, and instead drowns herself in _Kenji's_ kidnapping.

 

 

******

 

It must have been only two hours later when Harry notices something that she hadn't seen before in the library. In a way, she wouldn't have seen it at all if she hadn't let the book drop from her fingers and land on the mosaic floor in shock when Kenji died in a heroically tragic way. The _SLAM_ is loud in the silence that has accumulated, and flushing Harry bends down to pick up the heavy bible-like book when the corner of her eye catches something. It's the faintest of glimmers, but in the deep shadows of the wooden shelves, it grabs her attention and pulls her from her spot almost automatically. Crouching on the library floor, her hands brace either side of her body. The tiles are cool on her fingers, and her dark curls create a veil about her face as she ducks down to peer closely at the bottom shelf of the bookcase.

Except....

 

The bottom isn't really the bottom. Clearing the heavy books away, Harry sees now there's a tiny latch in the bottom of the bookshelf. Running her hands along it, picking up dust and grime, she feels the thin hairline crack of a compartment. Curiosity spikes, her tongue darts out in a preoccupied way as she suddenly grips at the latch, working to pry it apart. A tiny part of her mind scolds her, tells her this is _wrong_ to be snooping in a stranger's home. Except when had Harry Watson _ever_ listened to that voice before?

 

Right, once.

And it had ended in her youngest brother getting run down by a car.

 

_Just a peek._

_I won't touch anything. I promise._

_And then I'll forget all about it and carry on._

 

She tugs, grunting with the effort. The latch is rusted, and a horrible screech fills her ears with the sound of hinges struggling to move that she half-fears someone will overhear. Then there's a resounding _POP_ , and something comes undone. Harry is flung backwards about half a foot, dust floating in the air and making her sneeze.

When she clears her vision, she is staring at a small, rectangular hole. It's a depth of about three feet, and the compartment is just big enough to hold it's contents, but not a fully grown person.

_A child._

 

Harrry realizes bemusedly, peering into the darkness while tucking a lock of her dark hair behind her ear. The compartment is filled with strange, obscure things. Objects to her that don't seem to be of any real particular value. A faded corsage of flowers, their petals dried out but still sweet-smelling, a small stuffed hedgehog...... rocks and seashells and coloured outlines and what seem to be lab outlines, though they're scrawled in childlike script. Leaning in, she almost doesn't notice the stack of books off into the corner. When she does, she reaches for it despite her earlier promises, groping out into the darkness blindly until she touches the soft velvet cover of the one on the top of the stack. However it's when she pulls it out into the light, blowing off the dust of the cover, does her heart begin to race.

 

The cover is nondescript, dark green. So dark to appear almost black in the shadows. Yet Harry knows what it is even before she opens it to the creamy white pages. The journal has a soft leather kind of exterior, and there are worn marks from little hands holding it. When she opens it to the first page, she can't help but suck in a breath of surprise.

 

_The Journal Of Sherlock Holmes_

_Age 4-6_

_MYCROFT YOU INSUFFRABLE MORON STAY OUT._

 

The writing is block-like and cutesy, but that kind of language-

Harry laughs out loud, flinging her head back and letting the sound echo all about the library before she can clap a hand over her mouth in fear.

Reaching back into the compartment, she soon finds all of the books are similar, also journals.

 

_Age 6-7_

_Age 7-10_

_Age 10-13_

_Age 13-_

 

Frowning, she sees the last one, a navy blue one with lined paper instead of white is unfinished. Opening it, she sees the paragraph just cuts off, pen marks halfway through the letter _e_.

Tilting her head to the side, Harry looks back into the compartment.

There are no more.

It just.... stops.

 

Ends hovering in thin air. The thought is somewhat disconcerting. From what she had come to know of Sherlock, he liked to _finish_ things. True, he liked working on many things at once, and true he'd usually forget about some of his projects.... but he'd always, inevitably _return_ to them. This however....

 

Harry knows a part of her is telling her to just put them back. To not intrude into some else's mind. Another's privacy. Yet her fingers' tighten on the journal she holds almost possessively, and a small frown crosses her features at the thought. Things like this shouldn't be just _abandoned,_ left to _rot_ in a hole in a shelf... plus, John admitted that though he trusted Sherlock with his life, he knew very, _very_ little about his past.

 

…. Wasn't it her duty to protect her brother?

What if Sherlock was truly a monster in disguise? Like serial killer, or psychotic kleptomaniac or something? After all, they had gone through so many years of their Father's abuse, and everyone turned a blind eye to it. Nobody in the neighbourhood ever asked about the bruises, or why John fainted from hunger that day in elementary school.

Her jaw firms, and she nods once to herself as if that would somehow harden her resolve to snoop.

 

Protect the Watson Family.

Or.... something like that.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor so she can slam the compartment shut just in case she hears footsteps coming towards her, Harry starts off with the first one. Four year old Sherlock, writing in careful and deliberate strokes. She tries to imagine a thin little boy with defiantly dignified blue eyes and unruly dark hair and snickers to herself. For some reason, even as a child she can only see him in a dark suit. It's as adorable as it is hilarious.

_Let's see what the little genius had to say all that time ago._

_  
_Glancing onto the page, she reads.

 

_My Name is Sherlock Theodore Holmes._

_Hello. I don't know who you are, but you should not be reading this.  
_

_Get out.  
_

_I am four years old today, it's my birthday. I got this journal from Mummy, which is really the only reason I'm writing in it._

_I hate writing._

_It bores me._

_That's one thing you'll learn, is that I get bored. **A lot.**_

_Once I told Mycroft this, and he called me 'incorrigible'._

_I don't know what that means yet, but I'm going to find out soon._

_Mycroft if you're reading this, I will find out! I promise! And then I'm telling Mum after I use your hamster in an experiment!  
_

_I don't like not knowing things either. Especially because people assume I don't know things._

_But I know lots of things._

_I know Mrs. Bennet next door sees lots of men. **Lots** of them._

_Mummy says I musn't tell her husband._

_Mummy doesn't like it when I see things, she says it'll one day get me into trouble.  
_

_But she sees things too, like me.  
_

_Though Father is better at it.  
_

_That's another thing.  
_

_I know where Father goes every night, when he says he's going to work._

_It's not work._

_I even know that Mycroft cries in his sleep, though I don't know why._

_I've never cried before, at least not since I was a baby.  
_

_I wonder if it hurts, because it looks like it does._

_I don't want to cry. That's it. I've decided I won't ever.  
_

_Not even if I scrape my knee, or fall.  
_

_Crying looks like it'll just makes things worse. It's illogical.  
_

 

_Mycroft thinks I still **am** a baby...._

 

_This is my story....._

 

Called by the voice of Sherlock's past, Harry reads until the Dinner bell. When she gets up, her mouth is a thin line, and she can't stop her insides from trembling.

She's finished the first journal.

 

As it turns out, there's much more behind those pale blue eyes that narrow and analyze her false smile and laughter than she had first thought. Sherlock knows she's not fully into the festivities that night, knows her jokes are forced and the trembling in her hand isn't from exhaustion.

He doesn't know why Harry is like this, and doesn't ask.

Harry doesn't meet his gaze, or her brother's for that matter.

She knows she will be up reading tonight, finishing what she has begun.

Now she has no choice.

More than meets the eye....

More than she really wanted to know....


	30. Noises Inside One's Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so as some of you probably have noticed, I hint a lot at my characters' pasts but don't often touch on them too deeply unless relevant to the story. This is because I'm thinking that after I'm done this fic I will make it a series and have various stories about the character's pasts. So, I'm putting it to a two-week vote! after this story is finished, which story do you want me to begin? this doesn't mean I won't write the other's, but which should I begin with? Here are the options:
> 
> Sherlock's  
> Mycroft's  
> Greg Lestrade's  
> Harry/ John/Robin  
> Irene's/Summer's  
> or I could do a sequel fic with John and Sherlock already together and with the same characters later on in life as adults.....
> 
> Your choice! Vote via comment! :3 I will re-post this with each chapter for the next two weeks....

 

 Dinner is a warm, but quiet affair. The Dining Room is decorated for Christmas, tinsel wrapped about the china cabinet, an elegant crimson table cloth dotted with holly leaves lying underneath glinting china. John takes it all in with the excitement of a little kid, his grin widening at the napkins that are folded to look like Christmas trees.

“It's just folded paper John.”

 

Sherlock comments dryly from his vantage point where he watches his friend, hand cupped in his chin and mood vaguely waspish. There's a buzzing sort of irritation about him, and John is fairly certain it's because the stargazing on the roof had ended awkwardly and tensely between them. Like a cat that's had his fur stroked in the wrong direction he scrubs at his hair and can't stop twitching, his leg moving under the table. John scowls darkly at him for being such a buzz-kill, but says nothing more.

He's not in the mood to argue right now, especially over decorations.

 

Mycroft and Greg sit on either end of the table, both looking suitably uncomfortable with the utter chilliness of everyone's mood. It doesn't help when Harry after a moment stomps into the room, radiating a decidedly uninterested and stressed out presence. Inwardly Greg sighs, picking at his silverware and wondering to himself why teenagers seemed to be perpetually in a state of

_I am the core of the universe_

 

train of thought. Granted, most of the people at the table kind of had right to be most times, but it was unfair to Mrs. Hudson as she came in carrying tray-fulls of food for everyone to enjoy, a bright smile on her face. Both of the Watson children and Greg brighten when they see the spread laid down on the table before them with a flourish.

 

John's mouth waters as he takes it all in. The first smell he takes in is the sharp scent of garlic, coming from mash potatoes that are flecked with half a dozen different seasonings. The second is the rich flavour of cooked ham and fried vegetables, something the teen's only had the pleasure of watching others eat on the television. Like a dream, everything looks delicious.

_Everything._

 

Both the Watsons think they've died and gone to heaven for just a moment.

 

“Though we're going to have a fancy dinner on Christmas _day,_ I figured we should celebrate the new guests to our little family.”

Mrs. Hudson laughs cheerily, taking in the childlike faces that peer at her in open adoration, as if to say

_You mean.... we can have **all** of that?_

 

John; who's throat has suddenly closed tightly against his will in the overflow of emotions he's facing, struggles to come up with an appropriate way to say thank you to all of these people. He looks from Mrs. Hudson, to Mycroft, to Sherlock and then to Greg and Harry and feels like if he doesn't stop himself he might break down even while stuffing his face full of food.

 

Mycroft watches in mild amusement as his brother perks up at John's obvious excitement, Sherlock keeping up his scowl but leaning forward a little curiously to watch his friend's reactions towards something so simple. He tilts his dark curls to the side as he observes John making little sounds of ecstasy in the back of his throat upon tasting something he likes, which is everything. Harry is really no better, and Greg eats like a giant kid anyway, picking things with the least amount of vegetables and opting for lots of meat.

 

Personally, Sherlock has never really seen the point in _enjoying_ food. He frowns as John tries to make him take some ham, rocking back on the heels of his chair in manic movement. Food was just a means to an end, an occasional necessity for life. Like sleep, it was often optional, if you could train your mind. He had once spent an entire summer with Jim when they were kids, testing how long they could go hungry and what would happen exactly when they made themselves eat like the average person did. Except that was a long time ago, and all it had concluded in was a lot of fainting and stomach cramps for quite a while after. Jim had gotten so testy he had started to torment the neighbourhood cats with rocks.

Sherlock didn't really want to remember when he had discovered some of Jim's more.... _unsavoury_ characteristics and quickly distracted himself by baiting John.

 

“I don't see the point of eating. I'm not hungry. This is boring.”

 

Mrs. Hudson looks at him reproachfully from over her plate, and he hastens to add

“Not that your food isn't satisfactory but-”

 

John rolls his eyes, silencing the Detective before he can put his own foot in his mouth with a spoonful of potatoes. His friend chokes around the spoon, glaring at him, and Greg snickers.

“ _Eat_ Sherlock. I don't want you driving me round the bend all week just because you're tetchy from lack of food.”

 

“I'm do not get _tetchy_ John.” Sherlock mumbles around the mouthful of potatoes, lower lip dropping into a pout. At this their teacher downright snorts.

“ _Please._ Tetchy is your regular state of being.”

 

“Aren't you supposed to be encouraging _good_ behaviour and politeness in your students?” The darkly-curled teen snaps, picking up his fork in irritation and stabbing at the slice of ham on his place. Greg's eyes sparkle as he lifts his glass of mulled wine, taking a long sip before answering.

“On holiday? Not my job.”

 

Harry chokes on her food she's laughing so hard, almost snorting ham through her nose.

Mycroft sighs and leans back into his chair, staring hard at the vivid red in his glass. Then, tilting his head, he downs it in one swallow.

He knows it doesn't work, Mycroft can't get drunk.

Neither can Sherlock, for that matter.

 

However, one can always hope....

 

******

 

_Today was first day of school. A pointless thing really, considering I already have the knowledge of a sixth grader, according to tests. There's always tests, Mummy makes me take them. Pushing me, challenging me. She says it's so I don't get bored._

_The tests are boring though._

_Bad things happen when I get bored..... at least bad things for other people._

_I don't know how to handle boredom, noises get louder, I can't concentrate._

_Can't focus._

_School is a noisy place, I don't understand why people are so **loud** all the time. Pointlessly. Never-endingly. It hurts my ears._

_It hurts my head._

_I hid under the monkey bars at recess because of it._

_Also, I think I made Miss Sherbrook hates me._

_I'm not sure how._

_All I did was tell her the truth, that she was right. Her fiancée would never propose to her because he's afraid of commitment and wanted to leave._

 

_Why does the truth make people angry?_

_I tried to fix things, I showed her how to spell **leprechaun** properly because she kept writing it wrong on the board._

_The other kids laughed._

_I couldn't stop them, but they laughed._

_They laughed at both her and me._

_I don't think I like laughter._

_At least... not that kind._

 

_A girl name Sally Donovan bothered me while I was trying to solve my Rubik's cube. Succeeding, not trying. Mummy told me to try to be friendly, so I told her that yes, her pigtails were crooked like she thought they were, that her hair was slightly shorter on one side, due to a bad haircut._

_She cried._

 

_I got into trouble._

 

_I do not understand....._

 

_Mycroft once told me I was too honest. But, aren't people supposed to be honest? Isn't that a protocol that means you are a good person?_

_What is a good person?_

_Does one even exist?_

 

_I think Mummy is a good person...._

_That's why I think she'll get better. After all, good people don't get colds right?  
_

_Good people heal faster......  
_

_Maybe Father is a good person too...._

_Maybe._

_Even though he's sometimes mean.  
_

_He makes me play the violin until my fingers bleed and blister and sometimes I want to shout at him, but when I watch him lean into his instrument by the window and play for Mummy while she lies in bed, I don't think someone bad could play something so beautiful.  
_

_I think he's a good person. Just.... intense.  
_

_Like me.  
_

 

_I must do further research._

 

_******_

 

_Today I met a kid named Jim. He's the first one not to hit me, or call me 'freak'. Jim has a big smile. Sometimes it scares other people, how big his smile can get. People are afraid of Jim, even though I'm not. He found me under the monkey bars. He was running away from Sally. Her head bled red because of the rocks thrown at her as she wailed to Miss Sherbrook. Jim told me he thought she was a right **prat.**_

_I agree._

 

_I think Jim and I could be friends...._

_I'd like that, to have a friend._

 

_Jim doesn't have a Mummy or a Father._

_He lives in an orphanage with lots of other kids. Jim says it's **boring.**_

_He gets bored a lot too._

_He says his Mummy shot his Father. He doesn't tell me, but I know Jim watched. He had to watch his Mum shoot someone._

_Maybe that's why sometimes, there's a sort of prickly feeling I get in the back of my neck when Jim looks at me._

_His eyes are all dark._

_Like coal._

_Even though I don't feel safe with him, I don't feel bored._

_Nobody has ever been able to **stop** me from feeling bored before._

 

_It's fascinating._

_I want to learn how he stops the noise in my head._

_I want to learn if Jim has noise in his head too. Like mine._

_I want to know **why** Jim Moriarty wants to be around me, when others don't like me._

 

_Nobody else likes me....._

_I don't think anyone really likes Jim much either._

_Maybe that's why he hears noise too._

_  
_Harry, curled up in her beanbag chair in the darkness of night shivers. Checking her watch, she sees she's stayed up until midnight reading. Still she continues, driven by nightmares. She doesn't want to sleep, doesn't want to go up to her guest room and have to see that stupid pregnancy test lying on her dresser drawer. Doesn't want to abandon this little child that knows too much and seems to be hurtling himself into a tailspin. Her own voices whisper to her, even as she sees the snow falling heavily outside.

**_Noises inside his head?_ **

**_You know about noises.... How many nights did noises drive you screaming from your bed?  
_ **

**_The noise of his breath, the sound of his hand touching your skin.... C'mon Harry, sleep and remember.....  
_ **

****

**_  
_**She doesn't let herself dream that night. In the morning, she's finished half of the next journal.

****


	31. Big Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, so as some of you probably have noticed, I hint a lot at my characters' pasts but don't often touch on them too deeply unless relevant to the story. This is because I'm thinking that after I'm done this fic I will make it a series and have various stories about the character's pasts. So, I'm putting it to a two-week vote! after this story is finished, which story do you want me to begin? this doesn't mean I won't write the other's, but which should I begin with? Here are the options:
> 
> Sherlock's  
>  Mycroft's  
>  Greg Lestrade's  
>  Harry/ John/Robin  
>  Irene's/Summer's  
>  or I could do a sequel fic with John and Sherlock already together and with the same characters later on in life as adults.....
> 
> Your choice! Vote via comment! :3 I will re-post this with each chapter for the next two weeks....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff! Oh the fluff is unending! :D <33

In the end, John gets to sleep in Sherlock's old room. Sherlock himself takes the room across from his, stating with his usual amount of defiance that he

“ _Was forced to spend almost fifteen years of his life surrounded by these four walls.”_

 

In truth, John later finds out that his room is the only one in the entire place with it's very own space heater. Seeing the little metallic box, he clucks under his breath almost affectionately, turning it on so warmth seeps into the entire area.

“You colossal git.”

 

Curling under the covers, he wraps himself up tightly until only his head remains exposed. Staring blankly at the wall, he slowly lets out a small breath he didn't realize he had been holding in. Silence fills his entire body like liquid lead, the warmth of good food and being around good people draining him intensely. All the energy he's kept strained in his muscles seems to dissolve like snow before spring, and now he can only smile at the fact that he's here and that _Sherlock's_ here and that his sister's safe..... And that his Father though alive wouldn't dare to think of coming anywhere near them ever again. That in itself is enough for the young teen to consider God, and life as amazing as it is all around him.

He hadn't given much thought in his creator really.

He'd stopped believing in an intelligent being controlling everyone's fate long ago. That dream, that hope had died with Robin.

Yet somehow, the idea of faith always creeps in on him when he's least guarded against it. Sherlock had managed to relight that flame of hope again.

Which was ironic, because Sherlock thought being hopeful was to be disillusioned most of the time.

 

Staring at the posters on the wall, John wonders if Sherlock ever felt the same way. Did he have meaning in the Detective's life at all? He was fairly sure that they were friends, good friends even. Yet still....

 

There were times like maybe something could actually break between them. Spark, like two cogs rubbing each other in ways the other doesn't expect. Carrying on, forcing themselves to work in a way counter-intuitive to their design, even though if the shifted just a little somehow, some way, they'd click perfectly. Out of some willpower though, neither of these cogs _would_ move.

 

John's worst fear, deep in his chest, is that one day Sherlock will find a new cog to replace his.

And there it is.

Out in the open, and suddenly the teen can't breathe evenly and he has to clench a fist over his chest, closing his eyes.

 

_You idiot._

_You've gone and gotten attached to something that can't possibly feel that way._

 

That was okay though, wasn't it?

So long as Sherlock kept him around, John thinks he would be content. Content to see those constant changing eyes rest on him. Happy to see that awkward and impish smile. Elated to just be allowed to touch the rim of that black coat as it chases down puzzle after puzzle.

It's strange, because he's never felt love like this before.

 

Usually love instilled images of shy girls, tickling butterflies. Light pastel colours and strawberry-flavoured kisses under the sun.

 

Instead this kind of love is like a tidal wave. There's almost nothing romantically fluffy about it. It's a want, a physical _need._ Not for sexual contact, even though that's part of it admittedly.

No.

It's like he wants to wake up every morning and hug Sherlock, wrap his arms about him and thank him for being alive.

Thank him for not leaving.

Thank him for not _abandoning_ him and disappearing like a wisp in the dark.

 

He knows not many people feel this way about Sherlock.

Perhaps no other person did, and somehow that made John's desperation greater.

He _needed_ to know that tall figure valued his life to some extent, that he _understood_ that people needed him to stay alive.

Sherlock Holmes was good for this world.

He made it brighter, in his own impulsively volatile way.

He solved cases.

Fixed puzzles.

Explained the unexplained.

 

And hardly anyone ever thanked him for it.

Most viewed it as a curse.

It's late into the night when John hears the low shout from the other room.

In a moment, Sherlock is there, eyes wild with sleep and the lingering effects of a nightmare. At first he tries to compose himself, his back straightening and his lips parting as if to claim he was casually stopping by. Then John sits up, and Sherlock realizes John's been having bad dreams too. His mouth is a thin line, and the tired circles under his eyes say it all. His entire figure trembles for a moment, and in his eyes is fear unlike anyone's ever seen before. The blonde teen sees it, and shudders at the force of the emotions he feels in the pit of his gut.

He's never seen Sherlock so open, so raw before this moment. Sweat clings to his dark curls, and his breath is low but quick in hyperventilation. His eyes send a silent message than only he can hear.

_John.... please.... can I stay?.... I can't say it aloud and you know I can't... but can I?_

 

Without a word, John shifts over on the futon, back leaning against the wall gently. He spreads out the blanket with a kick of his foot, too rattled to do anything more.

 

After a brief moment, all the tension leaves him as Sherlock joins his side, as much relieved as he is reluctant. The two sit in the still dark, both curled up into tight little balls, hardly daring to so much as breathe. Too embarassed to talk, too frightened by their own demons to risk breaking into conversation. John realizes Sherlock's hand is tightly wrapped in his own, holding him for dear life like he might vanish. 

The earlier promise that he had made to himself about not encouraging his feelings are dashed by that touch. He feels a familiar pounding in his heart and can't stop it.

Wordlessly, they take in each other's presence, the other's scent.

Sherlock's, dark and mysterious and very much human, despite his willingness to believe otherwise. Brilliant. Brash.

John's, warm and woodsy and comforting. Dependable. Strong.

Neither of them admits that their nightmares where about each other.

 

Neither of them have to.

 

Sherlock dreamed he had been too late.

He had dreamt that he had to cradle John's cold and prone body and face the fact that it was his fault. That somehow in the dark illusions of his mind the blood that pooled at his feet and sucked at him, trying to drag him under was because of him.

All of his fault.

That he would have to live his entire life missing someone and regretting he didn't make it.

 

John had dreamed he had woken up and he was invisible.

Nobody spoke to him, Sherlock didn't acknowledge him. There was laughter in his mind, mocking his feeble attempts to get someone's attention.

And then he did get someone's attention, but it wasn't someone good.

His Father looked right at him, and John was suddenly six years old again, screaming for Sherlock or Harry or _someone_ to help him.

And nobody missed him as he was beaten to death.....

 

 

 

When Harry finally goes up to her room in the early morning, feeling exhausted and head-achy, her footsteps halt at the open door. Without a word she gazes fixedly at the two figures, resting on each other's shoulders fully dressed but dead to the world in the dark. Sherlock's dark curls are plastered to one side of his cheek, a small snore coming from his lips. John's lashes flutter gently with dreams, his hand just touching his friends with the barest of fingers.

A ghost of a smile pulls her lips, and she pads into the room silently and cat-like, grabbing the soft green comforter and wrapping it about both of them in the dark. Tugging it firmly about their shoulders, and letting the folds meet at the center.

_What am I going to do with you two. Honestly...._

_  
_She muses, looking at them and feeling foolishly paternal of them both. She knows it's not her place, but Sherlock truly does look like a little kid when he's sleeping, all awkward angles and bends. John's face looks less tired, and she thinks she sees him smile a little as he curls closer against his friend's neck.

_Not gay my ass. I have half a mind to tape this and make you two kiss.......But I guess I'm not **that** cruel._

_  
_Her eyes soften, and she hunts until she finds a pillow and puts it behind their backs to soften their bed.

 

Reading Sherlock's journal, it made her determined about one thing at least.

She no longer had just one little brother to take care of.

She might as well have two, because now John and this strange man were connected in a way she couldn't begin to understand.

 

“You better protect him.”

 

She whispers, just in the inner shell of Sherlock's ear. The teen's brow furrows just a little, and he tugs  John closer by the hips in his sleep as she pulls back and watches. Her brother gives in willingly, grumbling only in the slightest, his head cradled against his chest.

Like little children, they seem to brace themselves against each other in the dark, the two of them able to face the world so long as they are in contact.

Harry, briefly touching her abdomen as an afterthought, turns and walks away.

 

_A connection I can't understand..._

_And I don't want to._

_It's beautiful.... but if that connection severs..._

 

She doesn't want to finish that thought. She does not envy that kind of potential pain, and wishes it on no one.

Harry personally thinks that she's better off alone....


	32. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, so as some of you probably have noticed, I hint a lot at my characters' pasts but don't often touch on them too deeply unless relevant to the story. This is because I'm thinking that after I'm done this fic I will make it a series and have various stories about the character's pasts. So, I'm putting it to a two-week vote! after this story is finished, which story do you want me to begin? this doesn't mean I won't write the other's, but which should I begin with? Here are the options:
> 
> Sherlock's  
> Mycroft's  
> Greg Lestrade's  
> Harry/ John/Robin  
> Irene's/Summer's  
> or I could do a sequel fic with John and Sherlock already together and with the same characters later on in life as adults.....
> 
> Your choice! Vote via comment! :3 I will re-post this with each chapter for the next two weeks....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've decided to shift some of the ages of the characters a bit, and have already edited the previous chapters to fit it. It's not a huge change, but this is the line up.
> 
> Mycroft:22  
> Lestrade: Thirty five  
> Sherlock: 18  
> John: 16  
> Harry: 19
> 
> That's all ^_^ sorry! Now, to continue the fluff train, which apparently has no breaks anytime soon....

When Sherlock awakes, he realizes that he's made a mistake.

For a moment, his mind scrambles and reels like a startled horse at the sensation of _touch_ and _taste_ and _sight_ of an unfamiliar room.

 

_Room._

_Four walls._

_My old bedroom._

_Posters._

_Breathing, warm, blanket?_

_Yes blanket, wrapped about me, someone beside me._

_Feels nice._

_Safe._

_Warm....._

 

**_Fuck it's John-_ **

 

Like grabbing the wrong end of a curling iron the teen jumps, falling out of the bed hard with a resounding

_**THUMP** _

that if John wasn't such a heavy sleeper would have been sure to wake him up.

Dazed, the teen has to struggle to breathe for a second as everything is aligned at an angle because he's upside down. Blankets tangled about his legs and his mind shouting abuse at him, Sherlock struggles to remember exactly what happened. It comes back to him as sleep fades at an irritatingly slow rate, draining from him to be replaced by white-hot adrenaline.

 

Right.

The nightmare.

 

Leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling, he mentally calculates just how long it's been since he's been woken from the demons of his own mind.

_Around five years._

 

Except he had been determined to only stay for a second, a moment.

Instead he had actually had the gall to fall asleep. He mentally berated his body for not listening to his mind, wishing not for the first time that he could just be some kind of omnipresent force, immune to exhaustion and disease and emotion. Mentally, he calculates exactly how much cocaine he'd have to shoot up on to completely be able to delete the feeling of having John Watson's hand pressed to his own. Unfortunately, he's horrified to discover that his Mind-Palace has already recorded the feeling, saving it into an iron-locked box.

He can't delete it, and what's worse he finds his fingers longing to outstretch and replicate the feeling. He grits his teeth tightly to stop the feeling, interlocking them harshly enough to crack molars.

 

_Okay._

_**Think.** _

 

John wouldn't hold this against him. That wasn't what Sherlock was worried about, and never has been. That's what he likes about John, that he can be Sherlock Holmes around him, and not keep up boring charades. Except part of him _liked_ boring charades, a few of them anyway. The charade of being a sociopath, even though his friend didn't really believe that one....

The charade of being incapable of most emotions....

That one he likes too, except now it seems that charade has come to an abrupt end. If one could watch the teenager as he got up and began to pace, one could almost imagine a tail lashing fitfully behind him, physically expressing his anger with himself.

 

Why did being around John always make his body do things he didn't understand? He had tried so many experiments over the years, had scoffed at emotions and connections and love because he'd never been able to replicate the same feelings inside of himself. Inside him was a bastion of unspoken cues and meanings he had somehow deleted at birth, and at one time he had tried desperately to find them.

He had driven himself to an early edge, dangled himself over the cliffs of sanity, and nearly taken Mycroft as well as Mrs. Hudson down with him. Still he managed to cling to the barest thread, a small voice inside him insisting he couldn't just burn up, vanish into the engulfing chaos that is his mind.

He would try again, if it meant solving anything.

 

Except he had given up a long time ago, believing the room in his brain that had meant to house a heart was simply never created. That it hung empty and blank, and that he physically could not experience longing for another person, because longing was illogical. It did nothing to bring the person you missed back, and only drove the person mad.

It drove them to murders.

Theft.

Blood games.

Crimes.

 _Fascinating_ ones.

 _Boring_ ones.

The strange thing other Humans called heartbreak and even grief.

Hesitating, he lifts his fingers to his face, counting the individual spaces between each digit. Early morning light shines through each one, reflecting into his eyes, forcing him to squint. The pain of it is no less real than the uncomfortable squeezing in his chest, but maybe he was hallucinating.

 

He turns back to the bed, staring silently at John. The teen's curled himself into a ball, the covers scrunched in one hand, the other pressed just to the inside of his cheek. Blonde tufts of hair stick up at every angle-

He moves a lot in his sleep-

and his breath comes slowly and sweetly from his parted lips.

Deep sleep.

Deep dreaming.

 

He wouldn't be waking any time soon. His hand is perfectly exposed, and if he only wanted to, the Detective could reach out and touch. See for sure whether or not the feelings inside him are illusion or sickness or something else.

He felt sick..... but not a bad sick....

If there was such a thing.

_I want to know....._

Wordlessly, Sherlock lifts one hand, stepping closer almost timidly.

 

And then the door down the hall slams, and Lestrade sleepily stomps by in a holey grey shirt and swears, yawning but stopping short mid-breath when he sees the door open and the sight before him. Immediately Sherlock drops his hand, glaring and realizing by the man's uncomfortable posture what he's wrongly guessing.

All of the implications hang heavy in the air as the two men stare fixedly at each other, Greg's cheeks turning bright red and Sherlock's posture becoming gradually stiffer as the silence stretches longer than he thought possible. John doesn't stir throughout this, and all the teen can think is

 

_Thank God. I wouldn't be able to get him to shut up._

Finally, Greg grins rather roguishly, sticking his hands in his pockets as he relaxes. His face is still red though.

 

“So.....Should I be having Mrs. Hudson prepare wedding invitations?”

 

Sherlock, with as much dignity as someone with in their pyjamas can have, glares down his nose.

“A little bit hypocritical today are we? I wouldn't be talking when you're still obviously riding down from coital bliss that is obviously from what _you_ did with my _brother_ last night, which by the way I didn't think Mycroft was _flexible_ enough for-”

 

He's cut off by Greg's good-natured laugh, shaking his head. Both of them glance at John, who mumbles something and rolls over in his sleep. Sherlock worries that perhaps his friend may wake up, but instead he sigh and burrows deeper in the covers. He relaxes the tension in his shoulders as John's breathing takes a more normal sort of rhythm, turning back to Lestrade.

 

He's holding his hands up in a peace-offering sort of way.

“ _Relax_. No need to go all scary-ass-Sherlock-Holmes on me. I'm not judging, considering I have no right to.”

 

“We just held hands. If I didn't already think you to be stupid you'd _definitely_ be on the list now.” Sherlock murmurs testily under his breath, but Greg doesn't appear to hear as he continues.

 

“Just be careful is all. People, teenagers especially, don't seem to realize all the time just how powerful intimacy can be. It can either make a bond intensely stronger, unbreakable. Or it can tear a relationship apart. Trust me, I know _both_ sides. It can be scary.”

 

Sherlock finds it ironic he's getting _the talk_ from a thirty five year old man who has just come from shagging his _brother_ , but refrains from speaking. He crosses his arms over his chest arching a brow in a chilly way. He doesn't like being talked down to. Doesn't like how understanding the man's eyes are. Sherlock doesn't _want_ to be understood.

_Liar._

_  
_His mind whispers unexpectedly.

_You like it when John understands you._

_**That's different. Shut up.**  
_

 

“Sex doesn't scare me.”

 

When Greg smiles, it's the grin of someone looking at a particularly hyperactive puppy.

“But intimacy does. And they're not always mutually exclusive Sherlock. Sometimes you can't just pick one.”

Then his voice softens, and he lowers his hands.

 

“Mycroft's told me some things... about when you were kids....”

 

The teen bristles, his eyes flashing, but Greg hurries to continue.

“Until now you've kept your emotions out of it. Managed to stay untouched. Unburned. Don't think you're invincible. That's all I'm saying, and now I'm going to go get some breakfast.”

 

Lestrade runs a hand through his silver hair, thinking already about eggs and toast. He wonders if Mrs. Hudson could scramble them, it's been ages since he's had scrambled eggs. The tension leaves his stance, and he doesn't look back as he resolutely walks down the stairs.

 

If he'd have turned around, he would have seen Sherlock turn and look at John for a long time, hands clenched at his sides. Then, slowly like the uncurling of a flower, he reaches out and touches John's fingers with the barest brush.

Warmth.

Burning, healing and soothing.

_John._

_**John. John. John.** _

_**  
**_More addictive than any cocaine hit.

Not imagination.

 

When John wakes, Sherlock is gone.

Gripping the blankets around himself, he tries for a moment to figure out why his hand feels so warm. Then, shrugging he lies back, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe it was just is own wishful thinking, but he thinks that Sherlock is perhaps a little less prickly than usual in his interactions with everyone as they wake up. Maybe it's just his happiness, but the syrup he puts on his sausages tastes sweeter than anything he's ever tasted before.

 

Maybe it's all just illusion, but John wouldn't have it any other way.

 

*****

 

They decide to take a walk into town, partly because John wants to buy Christmas presents with what little money he managed to take from his old house, and partly because if Sherlock has to play one more round of Cluedo he's declared he will murder someone using a candlestick, in the kitchen, just to show how improbable it is. During the day _Blackcrow Woods_ is actually a pleasant place to walk through, the large drifts of snow glimmering with the promise of snowball fights and frozen angels and a whisper of fairy-tale holiday magic. Also, the lack of wolves is ridiculously relieving.

 

“I don't know why they bother you so much.” Sherlock comments into the lip of his scarf, hands deep in his pockets against the chill. His friend has noticed he doesn't have very good body temperature regulation, and John suspects it's because he's so twig-like. As it is his hands are nice and toasty, woollen mitts keeping them comfortably warm.

 

“After all, so long as you don't intrude on their territory at night they have no need to attack you.”

 

Somewhere overhead a crow lets out a croaky cough. Their heavy boots crackle dead branches on the ground, and the blonde teen jumps a little as one in particular sounds off like a gunshot. He notices Sherlock's amusement and scowls.

“Ever hear of little Red Riding Hood? She trusted wolves too and look where it got her.”

 

“I've deleted all fairy-tales from my my mind. Useless things, medieval ways to cow children in submission.”

 

John sighs despairingly, an affectionate grin crossing his features as he pulls his own scarf tighter about his cheeks.

“Remind me to never let you read to little kids any time soon. Scratch that, remind me to keep kids away from you in _general._ ”

 

Sherlock snorts, fingers itching absently for a cigarette. John glares at him when he lights one up, but he's forced to let it go as the Detective puts it between his lips.

They had promised.

Neither of them had to recover in any way until after the Holidays.

His eyebrows arch lightly as he feels the nicotine buzzing in his system, relaxing the intake of information that he's memorized since childhood.

 

_Woods._

_Trees._

_Sky is grey, more snow to be expected later on in the evening._

_Cumulus.  
_

_John's annoyed at me. I won't smoke for long then.  
_

_I want to though.  
_

_Maybe I will.  
_

_No.  
_

_I won't.  
_

_**Hands....** _

And for a moment, the thought is so unexpected he flinches physically, nearly dropping the cigarette into the snow. Fortunately, John doesn't notice, and Sherlock responds to his jibe with a smooth baritone that doesn't waver in the slightest.

 

“Duly noted.”

 

He blows the wraith-like smoke out in circular rings, and both of them watch in gentle contentedness as they float to the sky, breaking apart into misty pieces before fading completely over their heads.


	33. Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, so as some of you probably have noticed, I hint a lot at my characters' pasts but don't often touch on them too deeply unless relevant to the story. This is because I'm thinking that after I'm done this fic I will make it a series and have various stories about the character's pasts. So, I'm putting it to a two-week vote! after this story is finished, which story do you want me to begin? this doesn't mean I won't write the other's, but which should I begin with? Here are the options:
> 
> Sherlock's  
>  Mycroft's  
>  Greg Lestrade's  
>  Harry/ John/Robin  
>  Irene's/Summer's  
>  or I could do a sequel fic with John and Sherlock already together and with the same characters later on in life as adults.....
> 
> Your choice! Vote via comment! :3 I will re-post this with each chapter for the next two weeks....

The town of _Blackburn_ is apparently in a constant state of being stuck somewhere between the Victorian era and early twenty-first century, an odd mix of old and new. One walks on the cobblestoned streets and sees modern cars making their way sluggishly through the crowds of people, and John sees people seated on frozen fountains, texting their friends. Despite the Wintry chill, there's quite a few teens out and about, laughing brightly and linking arms. More young people than old people actually, which is surprising given the town's age and the value of the houses. John and Sherlock fit right in, despite the oddness of their pairing.

Tall and short.

Pale and tan.

Thin and stocky.

 

There are shops all brightly done up and lit for Christmas, rosy cheeks and bright presents illuminating everything with a shimmering sort of joy. Sherlock glares at all of this, but watches as John takes everything in with a small smile of utter contentment. It's strange, seeing the blonde teen laugh and smile and joke so easily, but Sherlock finds himself deleting old content of John to make room for the new one. The sad John that flinched at things and seemed fragile. No, not fragile, because before there had been steel. But that steel had been rusted and dented from forced exposure for so long.

Ready to crumble into pieces.

Now he seems strong.

Stronger than any kind of metal and shining like a new shield.

 

Sherlock finds himself explaining things to John, pointing out places of interest physically. Pointing here and there.

“Over on the other side of Town is Angelo's. It's my favourite restaurant, the fettuccine quite frankly makes eating _worth_ the trouble. And across that way is a pond full of algae, in the dark if you mix the right chemicals they _glow._ Found that during one of the first crimes I ever solved. Not that I was given any credit of course. Police don't give credit to children. John, are you listening-”

 

John's become rather absorbed in a vivid television display, the screen showing a blue box spinning in warp-like circles before descending into deep space. The teen presses his fingers to the glass and then his nose, grin widening.

“Dr. Who! I'd forgotten the season finale was playing! I wonder if he's saved that girl yet...”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, lower lip jutting out in irritation.

“What?”

 

“Doctor Who, it's all about an alien that travels through space and time in his TARDIS, which is a time machine-”

 

“It looks to me like he's more interested in snogging that blonde.”

 

“ _Sherlock!_ No she's Rose, and she's been trapped in another dimension-”

 

“Is there a reason his time machine looks like an old police box?”

 

“It's disguise thingy got stuck.”

 

“Hmph. Stupid. How would anyone not notice?”

 

The teen's tone is tetchy, and he knows that a part of him is simply annoyed at John's lack of attention towards him. However his friend doesn't seem to pick up on it. Instead in a surprising twist he turns and grabs Sherlock's wrist, pulling him over to a nearby book store. His fingers are warm, hot against his wrist and for a moment the Detective forgets all irritation.

 

“C'mon. I want to see if I can get a gift-card or a good book for Harry. She's been reading so much lately, I always knew she liked stories.... Are you going to get anything for Mycroft?”

 

The teen snorts, gently detaching himself even as his mind hums selfish and happy from the contact.

_More._

_More John._

 

“Why would I buy _him_ anything?”

 

John looks at him, bordering on amused and slightly stern.

“Because he's your brother.”

 

“His biological relation to me makes him no less annoying.”

 

The blonde teen runs a hand through his hair, but his eyes are twinkling as he pulls the store's door open so it chimes with a friendly little bell.

 

“You're horrible, you know that? Positively psychopathic.”

 

His friend's grin can only be described as evil. Sherlock steps past him into the store with a flourish, coat flaring out behind him in a bloody ostentatious way.

 

“I believe the more accurate term is 'high functioning sociopath'.”

 

“It sounds horrifyingly ornate and overly dramatic. It's perfect for you.”

 

John ducks just in time to avoid Sherlock's playful swipe at his head.

 

*****

 

In the end, John picks several small gifts for everyone. A copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ for Harry from the book store along with a velvety blue bookmark, a tin of cookies for Mycroft that Sherlock grudgingly admits are 'his favourite' and a new umbrella from a store called _Julian's_ , and for Mrs. Hudson a pair of shining green earrings from a jewellers dubbed _Heart and Crown_. Carrying the heavy plastic bags, the two boys have Christmas carols almost permanently stuck in their heads and both are beginning to feel aches in their feet and knees from walking for a few solid hours. Sherlock swears he'll get the most cruel revenge on John he can think of if _Frosty the Snowman_ becomes permanently ingrained in his mind-palace.

 

During their walk, John has absorbed the town in all it's wonder. There's a tone to it that's at once old fashioned dark and new age light, and many people smile at them and even greet Sherlock with distant friendliness. Which, considering the fact the teen has kept up his usual wall of ice is a miracle in itself. Coming to rest in front of a brick wall, the two watch the flakes of snow that have started falling again.

Sometimes it feels like winter will never end.

 

“This town seems like it'd be so _interesting_ to grow up in.”

 

Shifting to search his pockets for his phone, Sherlock snorts lowly.

 

“Not really. Boring place. Boring people. Boring things.”

 

John looks at him in surprise at such a blunt statement, eyebrows drawing together as he pieces things together slowly. His friend looks supremely uncomfortable, like he's been lying next to hot coals for a few hours. His jacket collar is flipped up and Sherlock tucks his chin against his chest, shivering from the cold.

 

“The other kids didn't like you much did they?”

 

“They didn't like the fact that I could tell them their entire feeble past in a matter of two seconds, no.”

 

John shifts to look at him, leaning closer. Sherlock can feel that warmth, lingering just by his arm. Kissing it with a ghost of dragon's breath.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

He says flatly, ducking further into the shadow of the wall as a person he recognizes passes. John doesn't see that, what he _does_ see is Sherlock closing himself off. Something that profoundly annoys him. He grips the man's arm, forcing him to meet his gaze.

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“Tea.”

 

He says suddenly, looking over at the distant café. Far enough away.

Good.

 

John blinks in surprise at the sudden change in topic. He's suddenly swept up in Sherlock's embrace as he all but steers him, pushing him out of the shadows and onto the streets.

 

“Tea John. It's cold. I'll die if I get colder. I'll be here when you get back.”

He smiles an all-too innocent smile, and John's eyes narrow in suspicion for a split second before he reluctantly turns away.

Who was he to explain all of Sherlock's strange moods?

As it was the Detective seemed relatively happy, if a bit.... off.

As if sensing his hesitation, the teen puts in a rather rushed rolling of eyes.

 

“We don't have all day.”

He states pointedly. Those dark curls rise into their typical imperious peak, and John relaxes just a little. An annoyed but amused smile crosses his lips faintly.

 

 

“Okay, okay. I hope you freeze before I get back you git.”

 

Sherlock watches him as he jogs off, almost holding his breath.

He's made it just in time.

The people he's expecting come across the alley just as that blonde head of hair leaves his vision. Fists relaxed loosely at his sides, Sherlock remembers vaguely that raucous laughter, the same kind echoing just around the corner. Then he had Jim by his side, and though he was a loose cannon the teen had been glad to have his company. His ruthlessness.

 

Sally Donovan, accompanied by Anderson and essentially everyone who ever beat up Sherlock in high school walk drunkenly around the corner, snorting and giggling over some such nonsense.

Mentally, the teen takes in their situation.

_Anderson and Sally are together._

_She's cheating on him._

_Both addicted to booze and cheap cigarettes. Their clothes suggest they're out looking for a fight._

_All loose things, easy to move in._

_Just like old times._

 

When she sees his familiar shadow she stops short, an incredulous bubble of laughter clawing from her Throat. Sally's dark skin is sweaty and feverish as she stalks forward, drunkenly pulling Sherlock around to face them.

Her sharp intake of breath makes the others laugh, Sherlock's eyes determinedly trained on the wall behind her.

“Well look who's back in town. Fuckin' genius Sherlock I-rule-the-world-Holmes.”

 

Her dark eyes narrow on his tall figure, and although she's smaller Sally sizes him up like she's looking at a piece of beef. There's a beer can in her hand, which she takes a swig from before smirking at the teen's obvious silence.

 

“What'sa matter Holmes? Strung out again like the last time we met? Big brother not here to save your ass?”

 

Anderson comes forward and without warning kicks Sherlock directly in the shin. The Detective grits his teeth, forcing himself not to sink to his knees. A few of the other kids laugh, their voices loud in the dark.

 

_Herd mentality._

_If I don't fight they'll leave soon and get bored._

_John won't see them._

_**Good.** _

 

Her breath tainted by alcohol, Donovan leans forward so that her breath brushes Sherlock's ear.

“You're not usually so complacent. What's up? Stalling for someone?”

 

Something in Sherlock's mask must've slipped, because she snickers loudly and turns to the rest of the group.

“Looks like Sherlock's got a girlfriend!”

 

Then her eyebrow waggles suggestively, and Anderson roughly shoves him against the brick wall. Sherlock thinks he can taste blood in his teeth. He grits them and hopes the line at the café is long. Hopes John trips and spills tea and has to go back and get more.

 

Because the girl's grin before him has turned into something a little more malicious, in the second she's seen his mask break. She wants to rip that mask off, piece by every fucking piece.

 

“Let's wait for your date, shall we?”

 

There's a grim response from behind, and everyone freezes as they hear a distinct click of a safety coming loose from a gun.

“You won't have to wait long. Though I resent being called a girl.”

John, eyes livid, presses the gun roughly and without hesitation at the base of Anderson's neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's going to happen?  
> Where is Sherlock's tea?  
> Where did John get the gun??!?!
> 
> Tune in tomorrow! <3 XD


	34. Brilliant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, so as some of you probably have noticed, I hint a lot at my characters' pasts but don't often touch on them too deeply unless relevant to the story. This is because I'm thinking that after I'm done this fic I will make it a series and have various stories about the character's pasts. So, I'm putting it to a two-week vote! after this story is finished, which story do you want me to begin? this doesn't mean I won't write the other's, but which should I begin with? Here are the options:
> 
> Sherlock's  
> Mycroft's  
> Greg Lestrade's  
> Harry/ John/Robin  
> Irene's/Summer's  
> or I could do a sequel fic with John and Sherlock already together and with the same characters later on in life as adults.....
> 
> Your choice! Vote via comment! :3 I will re-post this with each chapter for the next two weeks....

 

 

Tension lines everyone's posture as they take into the account of a weapon coming into play, many looking at John with a sort of silent and stunned expression. They're too drunk to react right away, but soon Anderson is trying to shift around slowly, see his opponent.

 

However the blonde teen has seemed to turn into a very soldier-like version of himself, and doesn't allow it as he rams the butt of the gun harder against his scalp. The young man yelps and lets out a tiny sort of whimper, and if Sherlock wasn't so busy calculating everything he might have smirked.

He sees what's going on.

 

“Don't move. I have half a mind to pistol whip you.”

 

John's face is impassive as he glances at everyone, taking in the situation with slow precision. Six of them, most too scared of their own shadow to actually do anything. The ones even close to being dangerous he had in his direct line of vision.

Good.

He looks over at Sally who's become pale and angry, her lips parted as if to say something offensive. Her eyes are trained on the weapon. John smiles sweetly.

Too sweetly. It makes her flinch.

 

Mentally, the darkly-curled teen is strangely relieved he's never invoked that kind of grin from his friend. He's already prying himself free from Anderson's unresponsive grasp. When his feet reach the ground again, he steps around Sally and comes to stand beside John, head cocked to the side.

 

“I _did_ tell you to go get tea. You didn't have to get involved.”

 

“Shut up you git. If people are trying to beat the crap out of you I _have_ to get involved.”

 

At that Sally seems to snap out of it a little, her eyes narrowing and taking a step forward. When John without hesitation points the gun at _her_ , she stops. However she doesn't stop talking.

Which from the way John's eyes blink infinitesimally, Sherlock deduces is a bad decision. There's a kind of volatile electricity under the blonde teen's mask of calm, and if it were a _real_ gun, Sherlock guesses he'd still point it steadily, fingers not trembling in the slightest.

 

The healer.

And the soldier.

_Interesting._

 

Of course, Donovan doesn't realize John's holding a simple dart gun, albeit a ridiculously _realistic_ looking one. In fact with the darkness of the wall and the dangerous glint in John's eyes, he had almost fallen for it as well.

Almost.

 

“Are you insane like that Jim guy too? What's with Sherlock and picking up fucking psychopaths? Is there some convention you all go to?”

 

Her tone is strong, but Sally's eyes flick to Anderson's prone figure, and her lips tremble just a little. She bites them when she notices it, adjusting the collar of her jacket.

_Impatient energy._

_Nervousness._

_Won't be any trouble._

 

“Look. We were just having a little fun. Nobody has to get hurt over this.” She continues, raising her brow in an attempt to be placating.

John feel fury bubble in his chest.

 

“Is _this_ how you have fun? Cornering people on streets who don't deserve abuse and haven't done _anything_ to you?”

 

The girl laughs, her tone dry. Voice rising, Sally challenges John openly when she stalks forward and all but breathes in his face. Anderson's the only thing that divides them, and he can see her teeth gritting in suppressed anger.

“You have no _clue_ what this bastard's done. He's a _freak_ , people like him shouldn't exist.”

 

Then, turning towards Sherlock, she spits on the ground. John's eyes spark, and he suddenly kicks Anderson hard enough that there's a satisfying wheeze.

 

“Get out of here!” John snaps, turning to the other teens who are trembling in a corner.

“ _All of you!”_

 

Then turning, he shoves Anderson onto Sally so the two both stumble and fall heavily into the brick wall. Sherlock's hand is around John's wrist, holding him back as the teens knock each other over in their haste to get away. The teen's muscles strain against Sherlock's, a silent longing to chase after them and make them pay.

 

 

He feels rather than hears the John's silent plea.

Demand.

_Fight?_

 

_**No. Let's not bother. It's okay John.... I'm okay.** _

 

A long silence where John spares a look at him finally, raking over his figure and heaving an almost inaudible sigh. His blue eyes flick up to look at green, and a small relieved smile crosses his lips.

 

_All right Sherlock..... All right._

 

The last thing they hear from the other teens is Anderson's shout of

“ _Fags!”_

 

Which makes John suddenly the person holding Sherlock back from pursue of them as he stiffens and his lip curls in distaste.

The two are inhibitors to the other's rage as for a moment they just stand, getting control of their emotions. John stares hard at the ground, dropping the dart gun in the snow as all the tension leaves him. He closes his eyes.

Breathes in sharply.

_Don't get mad._

 

He blinks, looks hard into Sherlock's face. The darkly curled teen is expecting some kind of backlash, some kind of accusation. In an attempt to lighten the mood, he adjusts his scarf gently.

“I suppose I know now what you planned to get me for Christmas....”

 

They both look at the dart gun, remembering how hard John yelled at Sherlock when he had tried shooting the walls of their dorm. Then both of them are laughing, the sound reverberating down the alleyway. John wipes tears away from his eyes, he's shaking so hard with mirth.

“Fuck. And I wanted it to be a secret too...”

“I would have figured it out anyway.” Sherlock sniffs imperiously, stooping to collect the toy before the sludge did it damage. He brushes it off with his jacket sleeve, turning it over in his hands like a professional cowboy.

 

“I wonder if I could scare Lestrade with this...” He muses darkly out loud. John snatches it away from his fingers.

 

“Don't you even dare. You'll have your ass expelled and I'll have to explain to them it's just a bloody toy.”

 

John's eyes shine with amusement, and his gaze softens. The smile shrinks from his lips as he sees the blossoming bruise at his friend's chin from where Anderson slammed him against the wall.

Reaching out a hand hesitantly, he rolls his eyes as Sherlock steps out of his reach.

 

“C'mere you big baby. Let me see-”

 

“I can care for my own injuries thank-you.” The darkly-curled teen scowls, but doesn't object further as John's warm fingers brush his chin. They're feather-light, searching silently for contusions and scars.

 

Nothing serious.

He lets out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding in. Then John's gripping Sherlock's jacket, all but shaking him.

 

“Why did you do that?!? And no trying to bullshit me. Sherlock, why didn't you _tell_ me you saw those prats-”

 

The Detective looks uncomfortable. Even though he's a full head taller he shrinks away from John like he's asked him something highly offensive. Except it's not that. He can feel the blonde teen's breath on his cheek and it's making him have some trouble organizing his thoughts like usual. Frowning, Sherlock's deep baritone is supple. Smooth.

 

“There was no need to involve you-”

 

“That's not the point and you know it. Why do you never ask for my help?”

John's hands grip the inside of Sherlock's coat, and he's ashamed to admit his cheeks are turning red. He hates how whiny he sounds, how foolish. He hates how he can't meet Sherlock's eyes. Hates how his voice rises and cracks.

His fingers tighten on the barrel of the dart gun and black fabric.

“I'm always chasing after you.... half scared to death that I won't get there in time. It.... It _scares_ me, watching you and being unable to do anything. I feel so stupid around you and maybe that's because I am. _I'm stupid_.”

 

John says this thickly as he wipes at his eyes, and Sherlock glares at him, his hands curling into frustrate fists at the ignorance of people.

His tone is angry, but he doesn't care because he wants to be sure John _listens_ and _hears_ him.

“John Hamish Watson you are many things. Stubborn, dramatic, sometimes very, very unobservant. But you. Are. Not. _Stupid._ You are good. The best partner I've ever had. _You were willing to shoot someone for me._ I'm always chasing after _you-_ You are-”

 

_Better than I am._

_Better than me._

_Fascinating._

_The most interesting experiment I've ever had._

_More than an experiment._

_How can you be so **blind?**_

_**You're brilliant John.  
** _

_The broken soldier and the mad detective._

 

It sounded like a really, _really_ crappy romance novel.

 

John looks at him with wide eyes, surprised by the outburst. Sherlock is inches away from him, head tilted down to his level. His breath is harsh against his cheeks.

Alive.

Wild.

_Feeling._

 

John has to bite the inside of his cheek _very_ hard to keep from pulling back, retreating from that intensity. It's like electricity all over his skin, licking it's way over his spine.

 

A staring contest.

A silent challenge.

 

The two are unable to either draw away or concede to the pull deep in their chests. Sherlock's voice is lower than it has ever been before. It touches John deep inside, cradles his heart in it's hold and squeezes in an embrace.

 

“You see... but you do not observe. Don't _ever_ think that you are inferior to the likes of me.”

 

In his eyes, John can swear he can see the same emotions he feels, except that's impossible. When they draw away from each other it's slow and much too pained to be considered normal.

Neither is sure they can be considered friends at this point. Not with so much more hanging precariously in the air.

Wordlessly, Sherlock offers his hand. Not caring for once what others might think John takes it, feeling his fingers intertwine with the long digits of his best friend's.

That connection keeps Sherlock warm despite the freezing snow.


	35. Prey To One's Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, so as some of you probably have noticed, I hint a lot at my characters' pasts but don't often touch on them too deeply unless relevant to the story. This is because I'm thinking that after I'm done this fic I will make it a series and have various stories about the character's pasts. So, I'm putting it to a two-week vote! after this story is finished, which story do you want me to begin? this doesn't mean I won't write the other's, but which should I begin with? Here are the options:
> 
> Sherlock's  
> Mycroft's  
> Greg Lestrade's  
> Harry/ John/Robin  
> Irene's/Summer's  
> or I could do a sequel fic with John and Sherlock already together and with the same characters later on in life as adults.....
> 
> Your choice! Vote via comment! :3 I will re-post this with each chapter for the next two weeks....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so for this chapter if you haven't heard the song already I seriously suggest listening to Lindsey Stirling's "Elements" on violin. It's Sherlock's song for this story, and I make references towards it having "four parts" which you won't ully appreciate unless you hear. 
> 
> Anywho. Enjoy! and warning! Harry's POV so.... yeah.

_Dear Journal,_

 

_Jim told me today that I can't analyze people without knowing the feelings they have. That because I've never experienced pain or madness or love for another person, I can't diagnose someone. I can't read them. This makes me angry, I shouted at him._

_I don't like being told I'm wrong._

_Especially when I can see it._

_He got angry at me too, I have bruises that are all dark and purple and throbbing from where he shoved me into the grass and tackled me. I think I gave him a black eye._

 

 

_Jim only grinned though, especially when I started to shake and call him mean and a buggering idiot._

 

_He says he did it as an experiment._

_That he was letting me experience pain so I **could** analyze better._

_Even though my bruises throb, I have to admit he's right._

_I recognize something now._

_That Mycroft's in pain. So are Mummy and Daddy._

 

_I want to thank him, but I still hurt. I still can't stop picturing those dark eyes, and the way they light up when others are in pain._

_Jim seems to relish it, but I think it's because he's always in pain himself._

_I just wished he said sorry._

 

_It doesn't hurt bad enough to tell Mummy, but it still hurts._

 

_But Jim doesn't say sorry. He says being sorry means you regret something. Jim doesn't want to regret anything. I can understand, so I don't mind too much......_

 

_Mummy says sometimes people don't apologize because they don't know how to. I don't know how to tell Jim I'm sorry I gave him a black eye._

_So I won't tell him I'm sorry._

 

_I want to live my life without regrets too....._

 

Harry sighs audibly, downing the last of her beer bottle and setting it down on the coaster. Slightly inebriated, her reactions have become more audible towards the journal. She grips it in her hand and cusses lowly at kid-Sherlock in her mind, hoping not to wake up the entire house with her annoyance. A part of her knows there's no point in getting angry towards paper and ink, but she can't help it. The booze is tingling up and down her system, forcing her to loosen the hold on her feelings. She broke down at around nine, and has now been steadily drinking into midnight. Though she paid for the beer so as not to force her drinking habits onto the Holmes' income, the residual guilt still lingers in her eyes as she gazes at the clear brown bottle before bringing it to her lips.

 

_Bad._

_No._

_Don't do this to yourself Harry._

 

When she drinks, the voice in her mind is her Mother's sometimes.

Though she's the only one to actually remember the woman, it's in blurry edges and lines. Memories badly focused and an illusion of warmth. That described their Mother in many ways. An illusion. In Harry's mind she was all smiles and songs until night fell.

Then her true colours would appear.

 

See the nightmares in Harry's worst dreams weren't actually just about her Father. The worst were when she remembered what he used to do to their Mom. That's when she wakes screaming, because she can't be certain which events are memories and which are parts of her imagination. That's when she's afraid, because she wonders if her own head would make up horrible things like that.

 

It must be nice to be Sherlock Holmes and remember everything in perfect clarity.

Photographic memory. No illusions.

At least then nothing gets exaggerated.

 

Then she takes another swig, looking down at the neat writing. He's around twelve here. This Jim kid is giving her the creeps the more she reads. It's really no wonder why he's not still Sherlock's friend today.

Obviously cracked, though to a child or a friend it'd be harder to tell.

From an outside view it's like poisonous black paint coating every word.

Seeping.

Destroying.

Whatever happened to him, she assumes it probably involved a bullet to the head.

 

Her moody thoughts take a downward spiral at that thought, and Harry cracks open another bottle.

She knows she might be sick.

Knows she still hasn't tried the test, the little white stick lying hidden under pillow. The thought that she might be poisoning another life makes the alcohol freeze partway to her lips, and she cusses lowly.

_No._

_I'm not._

_I'm not I'm not I'm **not.**_

_Screw this._

 

She sets the bottle down harshly, not caring that the table trembles. She has no more money, the last of her meagre savings spent on a booze run that now she couldn't even enjoy properly.

Harry flips the page, forcing herself back into the story.

 

_Mummy's been sick for a long time. She lies in bed a lot, and I think it's boring so I play violin for her and tell her stories. Lots of stories, ones about dragons and knights even though dragons don't exist, and ones about factually correct dinosaurs, not like the purple and green one that sings on T.V. That I have no patience for when I must read to younger grades. I like to sit at the foot of her bed and wriggle myself into a cocoon, telling her about school and Mycroft's idiocy. She calls me her **little otter** even though I've outgrown that name and picks me up and tries to hold me like she used to. I protest and tell her I'm too old for it, but she doesn't really listen._

_Mummy likes it when I play one song in particular._

_It's not finished yet, so far I only have three parts._

 

_Water, which is me. I'm always erratic and people think I'm all over the place, but I fall faster and faster sometimes and I think I'm flying and dancing even though I know I always have to go back to the ground._

 

_Fire, which is Jim. Jim is like flame, if you're careful you get the illusion you can control him. Like a candle you can hold him in your palm and he just licks your fingers, brushing them with warmth. I've learned you can't control him totally though. He can destroy things, engulf it whole and swallow everything. His gaze can turn things to ash. Sometimes I worry he will hurt someone._

 

_And Wind, Mycroft. Mycroft is always telling me what to do. Directing rain drops, using his umbrella so he doesn't ever get wet. Untouchable. Omnipresent. He's steady.  
_

 

_I have no inspiration for Earth though. I don't know anyone who fits it._

_Mummy doesn't know who it should be either. Someone I always come back to._

_Like the rain falls to the Earth.  
_

_Except I don't have anyone like that.  
_

_I asked her,  telling her my feelings, and Mummy just smiled. She told me if that time ever comes I will “Just know.”_

 

_I don't know what that means....._

 

The book slides from Harry's fingertips then, drunken sleep washing over her lasciviously like a calming wave. She weakly tries to fight it, knowing what's awaiting for her in that darkness. Harry loses that battle as her eyes close, her chin slumping against her chest. The book falls to the ground, clattering on the wooden floor helplessly.

The young woman is left to the prey of her own mind. The one place she can never drink herself out of.

The one land she can never escape.

Run from.

 

Harry Watson falls asleep with fear alighting in her eyes of what is to come.


	36. Falling Back To Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, so as some of you probably have noticed, I hint a lot at my characters' pasts but don't often touch on them too deeply unless relevant to the story. This is because I'm thinking that after I'm done this fic I will make it a series and have various stories about the character's pasts. So, I'm putting it to a two-week vote! after this story is finished, which story do you want me to begin? this doesn't mean I won't write the other's, but which should I begin with? Here are the options:
> 
> Sherlock's  
> Mycroft's  
> Greg Lestrade's  
> Harry/ John/Robin  
> Irene's/Summer's  
> or I could do a sequel fic with John and Sherlock already together and with the same characters later on in life as adults.....
> 
> Your choice! Vote via comment! :3 I will re-post this with each chapter for the next two weeks....
> 
> THE FIRST WEEK IS PRETTY MUCH DONE. SO FAR THE LEAD IS A SEQUEL. :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: rape heavily mentioned in this chapter.
> 
> just be careful cause I don't want anyone to be angry or hurt ^_^

 

 

“ _Harry! Look what I can do!”_

 

_Five year old John grins as he presses the velveteen hedgehog the family knew as **Reese** onto the swing, gripping the edges of the plastic seat as he braces himself and slowly backs up against the damp sand of the park. Harry looks up from her white knuckles that grip the monkey bars and support her weight, dangling seemingly miles off the ground to her twelve year old mind. Her wild dark curls are messy as she grins a gap-toothed smile at her little brother's intense focus, then glancing over at the little kid curled up in the baby swing, focused on the rain drops that coalesce on the smooth iron structure of the swing._

 

“ _Show Robin! Rob! John's going to send Reese up into space!”_

 

_Those deep Watson-blue eyes turn to look, cheeks turning pink with happiness as he loudly proclaims_

“ _Space! Shoot Reese into Space!”_

 

_and because it's a dream, John does._

_He launches the hedgehog so high into the air it reaches the brilliant azure sky, clouds parting to accept the stuffed animal into their home. Harry can see it, drifting higher and higher in her mind's eye, like she's flying right beside it. \_

_Maybe she is._

 

_When she blinks she's surrounded by white clouds and dark sky, tumbling and rolling over and quickly turning iron grey._

_Steely._

_Lightning alights her eyes to white pinpricks, sizzling around her with mighty white-hot branches to seek out and strike the ground below at random. Cold rain pounds on the back of her neck._

_Feeling like nails have settled into her stomach, Harry realizes she's still in the body of her childlike self. Her moment of flight seems to be fading as desperately she tries to hold on the the once-warm feeling of this dream._

 

_However it's slowly descending into a nightmare as she hears the voice that she's known so well over the years._

 

“ _ **Harry! Get out here!”**_

_Father._

_Even though her mind is still that of a nineteen year old's, she trembles like the twelve year old girl she looks like at that tone. Commanding._

_No escape._

 

_The lightning sizzles ominously, her curls becoming wet and plastering themselves to her forehead with the rain. Slowly, she descends back to the cold and unforgiving ground._

 

_The park is gone._

 

_Instead it's a bleak and empty space, resembling something like her old bedroom, except overly simplified to harsh shapes. The jutting edge of her bed, the sharp frame of the window. White light pools around her but doesn't really illuminate anything. Instead it just increases the number of shadows._

 

_From one dark corner comes the unexpected flying fist._

 

_It strikes Harry right in the stomach, making her wretch and dry-heave as she sinks to her knees. Before she has a second to accept this phantom pain and adjust a kick comes, clipping her temple and sending her sprawling across the floor._

_Then her Father's there, looming over her with bared teeth and a wicked glint in his eye. His tone is as cold as it was that night._

 

“ _ **Come home drunk again you little bitch?!”**_

 

_Harry has no choice but to live out the memory like it happened, the words coming slurred and annoyed from her lips even as mentally she screams at herself to stay quiet. To not antagonize him._

 

“ _Wha'sa matter? You do it all the time!”_

 

_In response to the accusation he does the same thing he did last night. He laughs that cruel laugh and throws his beer bottle beside her head, letting it shatter to bits of glass tangle in her hair and booze coats her cheek in a splatter._

_Then he grabs her by the hair and pulls her to her feet, so that his breath his right in her face and Harry gags._

“ _ **You wanna criticize me again bitch?”**_

 

_In response she spits in his face, making him let out a deafening roar as he flings her onto the bed. Her head hits the wall with a sickening **THUD**_

_and she gasps_

“ _Go to hell you bastard-”_

 

_Before he's pressing upon her, driving her up against the wall. The bed-springs creak and wail out their protests and she struggles and screams, but he's too heavy to fight off. She can feel him then, holding her down with his body, gripping her wrists in one hand so she can't escape and using the other to force her chin up so she looks into those pale blue eyes. Her breath comes out in ragged, horrible gasps in the dark, because she knows what's coming next. Even in her memories, a part of her knew and tears well up in her eyes and begin to trickle down her cheeks._

_That predatory gaze drinking it in and enjoying her pain._

_She remembers whispering._

_Almost begging._

_As close to begging as Harry ever gets._

 

“ _Don't.... John will find out.... he'll kill you...”_

 

_And then his hand forcing her lips forward, sealing over them with his own._

_Hot._

_Too hot._

_It burns her and she shudders even as she weakly kicks out. His hands roam her body roughly in ways she never wanted to be touched and she can't stop them and **oh God it's happening again make it stop it hurts-**_

 

_His shadow swallows her whole._

_Makes her empty and dead. Engulfs her in darkness._

_Eventually, the dawn comes and he stops._

_Wanders away without a care in the world, no remorse._

_Leaving her a shell._

_When he's done with her she curls into her covers, knees connected tightly to her chest and cries silently, the covers mussed and scattered about. Her lips bleed, bruise over._

_She's so cold._

 

_Harry hasn't stopped feeling that coldness since._

 

When she awakes, someone is playing a violin.

Harry's grey eyes stare vacantly at Sherlock's tall figure, fingers effortlessly flowing over the neck of the instrument as he stares out the library window.

 

He doesn't acknowledge that he's the one that put the bucket by her chair, which now she leans over towards and vomits violently.

He doesn't touch her as she sobs and presses the reading blanket she's been using to her face, eyes turning red and puffy.

Just keeps playing, ever unreadable and indiscriminate as those pale eyes gaze out into the snowy outdoors.

Harry has never been so thankful towards anyone in her life as she presses fists to her eyes, the darkness sending both relief and fear coursing through her.

 

The violin piece has four parts, she notices absently.

Glancing at the journal on the ground, her voice is raspy in comparison to the music. Dreadfully raw.

 

“It's John isn't it? Earth is John.”

 

His only reply is a turnaround back to the fourth section, letting it play through twice before weaving into what can only be described as the _wind's_ part.

The taste of acid from throwing up still in her mouth, Harry, curls the blanket tighter about herself and just listens.

 

Sherlock doesn't tell her that her whimpering was what had drawn him to the library, his insomnia only marginally satisfied by the book he had been reading upstairs.

Doesn't tell her he knew as soon as he saw her prone figure mumbling in her sleep what she was remembering.

Doesn't tell her that he observed in an instant all the alcohol and the journals on the ground. It's his own fault anyway, he should have hidden them better.

He's not angry, even though at one time he would've been.

 

John's taken away that anger. Like a spinning planet that Sherlock is hopelessly caught in, his gravity centres him and he plays on into the morning, wordlessly conveying everything he feels and everything he knows into music.

 

There will come a time that she will read _that_ journal, and she will know why he understands every flinch she has, every hesitation as she stares off into space.

She will know why death doesn't phase him, why he doesn't care when people laugh at him and call him cold and cruel. And maybe that's okay.

Maybe it's all right for Harry to know.

 

After all, she's the most likely in this house not to flinch from such things.

 

Because perhaps Harry Watson is the bravest of everyone. Because she's willing to break down and cry in front of someone she barely knows in the dimness of evening and then promptly act like nothing of the sort happened the next morning. Smile when most grown men would have broken long ago.

 

Brave and strong.

 

Harry and John.

 

Sherlock wonders absently as he plucks at the strings what _he_ is to John.

 

He doesn't know his friend would have replied without hesitation.

_Brilliant. Like a star._


	37. Burn It To The Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, so as some of you probably have noticed, I hint a lot at my characters' pasts but don't often touch on them too deeply unless relevant to the story. This is because I'm thinking that after I'm done this fic I will make it a series and have various stories about the character's pasts. So, I'm putting it to a two-week vote! after this story is finished, which story do you want me to begin? this doesn't mean I won't write the other's, but which should I begin with? Here are the options:
> 
> Sherlock's  
> Mycroft's  
> Greg Lestrade's  
> Harry/ John/Robin  
> Irene's/Summer's  
> or I could do a sequel fic with John and Sherlock already together and with the same characters later on in life as adults.....
> 
> Your choice! Vote via comment! :3 I will re-post this with each chapter for the next two weeks....

 

 

“Tell me.. why are you being so hesitant about crossing the threshold of the house?”

 

John looks at Sherlock in annoyance, lips puckered in the beginning lines of aggravation that usually accompanies his attempts to explain the normal world to his friend. His eyes flick to the source of his stalling, staring at the little piece of green leaf and white circles that's hanging over the door with a piece of brightly coloured red ribbon.

The fact that Mrs. Hudson has waited until _after_ they went out to buy more milk to finish her decorating makes John at once suspicious as well as embarrassed. The mistletoe hangs there offensively like an overbearing relative, greeting them with years of tradition and pleasant festive cheer.

The blonde teen crosses his arms over his chest.

 

“I am _not_ walking under mistletoe with you.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the stubborn shoulder line that is his friend, taking off his coat and stomping snow off his boots roughly. He briefly considers to himself the impossible question, how somebody could at once be so irritating and at the same time amusing-

even as his baritone rumbles smoothly.

 

“John. I find it ridiculous you believe in such _fantasy._ It's not like a plant has any control over your faculties.... or mine for that matter.”

 

In return John huffs, shifting uncomfortably as his ears turn just a little bit redder. Normally he's not so immature, but in light of the recent electricity that's been sparking off his skin whenever he's around the Detective he's wary of anything that could tip the precarious balance. After Sherlock sees the teen has no intention of coming inside until he's fully in the hallway he snorts in resignation and walks forward, listening to John's heavy footfalls behind him.

 

Immediately the two notice the warm smell in the air, Christmas Dinner in the oven already even though it's only late morning. Harry pokes her head around from the kitchen, dark curls clipped back with a tinsel-lined hair-scrunchie and her oven-mitt clad hands in the process of taking out a sheet of cookies. Her apron is dusted with flour, as is her smile.

“Hey. You boys want a snack?”

 

Sherlock, grumpy because Christmas holidays meant no new cases simply glares at her, but John takes a cookie with a grin and puts it in his mouth.

Sweet.

Warm.

Buttery.

 

It's heaven in a snowman-shaped pastry.

“I didn' know you coul' bake.” He mumbles around the food, watching the darkly-curled teen out of the corner of his eye flop into his chair in the living-room. Sherlock is scowling, twisting the piercing in his ear like it holds the answers to the world as he curls his legs up to his chest in thought. It's been too long for him to without a puzzle, John caught him smoking earlier this morning. Though technically within the lines of their agreement, it was still frustrating. He still had fears that at some point Sherlock would get too bored and resort to something more harmful like cocaine.

So far, he had held, but it was always tenuous game. A thin line that John fears is getting thinner.

 

Harry laughs airily at his comment even while checking on the turkey, turning on the oven light and inspecting it's progress with a clinical eye.

“Neither did I. Mrs. Hudson just gave me cookbook and here I am, acting like a right chef.”

 

Her cheeks warm happily then, and John is glad such a soft expression rests on her features.

“It's.... fun.... creating something from simple ingredients. I wanted to make lots since Irene and Summer are coming over for New Years.... it's wonderful, making you smile because the food is good.... Maybe I should become a baker!”

 

Her grin is so disarmingly childish that John can't help but joke.

“You being around knives and fire and getting _paid_ for it? I shudder at the thought!”

 

She whacks him with a wooden spoon encrusted with cookie dough.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at idiocy and presses his hands against his lips in silent prayer-like thought. Tonight will be the night before Christmas.

He wanted to do something not boring.

He hates how when he thinks this his eyes flick to those deep blue eyes.

Still, he likes how John's cheeks have a habit of turning red whenever he looks at him too closely for too long.

 

******

It's the sickening crack of bones coming free from their sockets that Jim loves more than any other kind of Christmas present. There's something about his hand pressing into someone's shoulder, pushing the joints with the heel of his foot. Tearing.

Breaking.

 

The young man's screams are harsh in the silence of the alleyway they stand in, his entire skeleton trembling with sweat and tears as he sobs uncontrollably, gripping his now dislocated shoulder. His greasy orange hair is matted with blood, and with wild eyes he looks up in horror at the two shadowy men, the dark rings under his eyes from being on the run and spending many a sleepless night being prone to nightmares.

 

His arms are littered with pinpricks, echoes of needles being injected into his pale skin. His lower lip trembles deliciously as Jim leans in, Seb by his side making all thoughts of escape laughable. His Irish brogue is cheery and affable, like he doesn't notice the blood that stains his scarf. The man's pale face flinches as one hand reaches out and strokes his cheek almost lovingly, pulling his chin upwards as his thumb brushes his lip.

In those eyes he becomes lost in the darkness.

Black, no end.

 

“Now, now Danny-boy. We know why I'm here. It's only fair after all, you're a month late on payment.”

 

His dark eyes dance wickedly, and Jim's hands wrap about the drug addict's throat.

“Tell me... who helped you run for this long?”

 

With the casual question comes the tightening of his fingers, and Daniel gasps. Clawing at his throat, he lets out a small moan like a wounded animal.

“Please....I can't tell you.... Just give me a little time..... _Ack-_ ”

 

He bites his tongue then, tasting blood coagulating thickly just behind his teeth. A single tear streaks down his cheek, and he shakes as the lunatic _shushes_ him like one might soothe a frightened child. Jim strokes his ginger hair, an expression of profound disappointment on his features.

 

“Danny-boy you've let me down. It's one thing to try and _run_ from me, but to _lie_ about your intentions-”

 

There's a sickening snap, and Danny lets out a gurgled cry as his shoulder is forcibly snapped back into place. Red washes his vision as he slumps to the ground, curling into a ball and expecting the kicks and fists that strike him and break him.

Jim's voice has turned cold.

Behind him, Seb's fingers clink with the sound of heavy chains being wrapped about his knuckles. His green eyes hold nothing in their depths as Jim steps back into the shadows, his eyes glimmering with pure darkness.

This is boring.

He is quickly becoming prey to his own mind. The memories again.

He needs more stimulation.

A better opponent.

_He needs Sherlock and his puzzles._

 

_**Soon.** _

 

“I'm afraid that deserves punishment.”

 

 

When Officer Kyousuke is notified about the bodies, his grip tightens on the phone.

“You sure?”

The voice on the other end trembles just a little bit.

“Dead sure sir. The first one is identified as Daniel Fairgrew. The other is his girlfriend. Apparently she was helping him run from whoever was after him. Sir.... I when I saw her body....”

 

On the other end is a long silence, one the kind of strain audible that comes only from long hours and bone exhaustion. Kyousuke's voice softens just a little.

 

“Harrison... go home to your family. I'll handle this.”

There's a beat of breath, and then

 

“Thank you sir..... but just so you know... the murderer left a message....”

The Officer's throat tightens a fraction of an inch.

“What is it?”

 

“..... **I will burn it all to the ground.**... Christ this guy is twisted, he wrote it in blood.....”

 

 

When Kyousuke hangs up with a low sigh he leans against his desk, carding a hand through his jet black hair.

A murder on Christmas, never a good sign.

Reflexively, he considers calling Sherlock. The kid tended to like freaky ones like this, and he was actually strangely effective at solving things.

Still, he doesn't pick up the phone.

 

The truth is, he wants everyone to enjoy a good holiday without distractions, even the ever-annoying Sherlock Holmes.

He had heard about the incident with John, and soon there would probably be court trials, despite Sherlock's brother's meddling with the issues. The fact was times would probably only get harder for the odd pair that had helped him so much so far..... Not to mention his higher ups were getting annoyed that an eighteen year old kid was showing up trained police men and foresics teams on a daily basis....

 

His department could handle it, he was almost sure.

No need to involve kids in this kind of stark lunacy. He picks up his mug of coffee, taking a long and bitter sip.

If only his Christmas was ruined, so be it.

 

He would wait out tonight in his office as a lone defence, on guard for any more strange calls......


	38. I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay, so as some of you probably have noticed, I hint a lot at my characters' pasts but don't often touch on them too deeply unless relevant to the story. This is because I'm thinking that after I'm done this fic I will make it a series and have various stories about the character's pasts. So, I'm putting it to a two-week vote! after this story is finished, which story do you want me to begin? this doesn't mean I won't write the other's, but which should I begin with? Here are the options:
> 
> Sherlock's  
> Mycroft's  
> Greg Lestrade's  
> Harry/ John/Robin  
> Irene's/Summer's  
> or I could do a sequel fic with John and Sherlock already together and with the same characters later on in life as adults.....
> 
> Your choice! Vote via comment! :3 I will re-post this with each chapter for the next two weeks....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....smut.  <3
> 
> yeah that's about it. the moment you've been waiting for..... XD
> 
> not really invasive, but still kind of intense for a teen rating..... meh.... XDDD

 

Dinner is quite simply, fantastic.

 

Harry was right when she said she seemed to have a natural talent, as everything was so delicious that even Sherlock had seconds, albeit under protest. The turkey in itself is enough to send John into a complacent sleepiness, and he sees Greg rubbing his stomach with plain content under the table when he drops his fork. Feeling altogether swollen and a little bit like a penguin, the two friends laugh and joke back and forth until late into the night. They decide to retire though when the conversation turns decidedly sexual between Mycroft and Greg, and Harry's already gone to bed for a change instead of retiring to the library.

 

That's how John finds himself sitting on the floor of Sherlock's room, half-sprawled out on the blanket as he watches those dark curls duck down under the bed, searching for something. He smiles at how excited the Detective is, rolling around and cursing loudly when he hits his head on the bed springs. He hasn't told John yet what he's looking for, but when he reveals his prize it's definitely not what the teen expected.

 

“I know I hid it here..... _ah_.”

 

Pulling the heavy treasure out from under it's hiding place, Sherlock holds up the bottle of bubbling champagne with a flourish and a roguish grin.

“Care to get drunk with me for an experiment my dear Watson?”

 

A blonde brow arches, and John's face scrunches up in a mix of amusement and disbelief. Sitting there with his hands clenched on his crossed ankles, he looks at his friend dubiously, his deep blue eyes shining.

“You.... _do_ realize it's kind of difficult to get plastered off of champagne right? And what could this experiment _possibly_ clarify for you?”

 

Sherlock's grin is wicked as he flops down beside John, stretching out his impossibly long legs and taking careful aim with the bottle towards the poster of Tesla. His blue eyes flash as he pops the cork, the sound resounding like a gunshot in the close quarters of the room. The cork dents the wall a little, bouncing off and nearly striking John upside the head. He ducks with a scowl, hastening to tip the bottle back up straight so the foam wouldn't get all over the floor.

It's a wonder nobody ran into their room to find the source of the ruckus. Then again people in this house were well-used to the sound of explosions and bullets to not be overly concerned.

 

“Sherlock-”

“The _experiment_ John is to see how much we need to drink before we get plastered. My tolerance of course is pretty high, so using you as a test subject will prove useful to compare my capacity to a normal person's.” He explains this like it's the most logical subject in the world, digging back under the bed and producing two glasses.

He pours the almost-clear liquid into one until it's full, holding it up to John in a silent challenge.

 

“Besides, I bought it using Mycroft's credit card. He needs to hide it better.” His deep baritone chuckles.

 

After a moment, the teen lets out an exasperated growl and takes it, feeling the cool glass between his hands. Sherlock in turn pours himself a glass of his own with a satisfied _hmph,_ leaning back against the foot of the bed and staring at the ceiling. Tentatively, John takes a sip.

 

It's good.

High quality-grade stuff. For champagne anyway, usually the few times he drinks he likes something a little less fruity. A little stronger. However this is pleasant after the rich meal he's had.

Like a sweet dessert.

 

“So what brought this on?” John inquires casually, also leaning up to look at the ceiling. He tries to ignore how the dark purple of Sherlock's shirt makes his eyes seem to glow like jades in the dim light, the way his lips are parted slightly in the beginning of a bemused sort of scowl. He leans forward, balancing his glass in one hand as he broods off into the distance. His fingers splay out on the ground, tapping gently in impossible sequences.

 

The silence stretches a long time, but Sherlock does eventually reply. When he does his voice is quiet.

“John.... Do you ever consider where you're going... after school?”

 

Frowning a little at the note of seriousness in his question, John carefully shrugs. Sherlock is acting like one answer or another won't affect him, but the teen senses it's a loaded sort of topic. He sips his drink and shrugs one shoulder non-committally, gazing at the patchwork floorboard underneath them, memorizing their shape and texture. The truth is he's not sure. A part of him had vainly hoped that he would never have to officially decide, because decision meant finality.

He didn't want school to end if it meant an end to everything.

An end to solving crazy cases and running and Sherlock's touch and his smile and his scowling face.

 

He doesn't even really want Christmas to end, because it's the closest he's ever been to the man. Inches away, totally comfortable with one another. It feels right and solid and _real_ , but he can't be sure that it won't just dissolve eventually over time. John knows in his chest that it won't ever for him, but he's never totally sure with Sherlock. His eyes are faraway islands, lost in a sea of calculations. He can be cold as ice. Yet the teen craves his contact, craves his ability to draw him from that island and back to the real world.

It's addicting and frightening, to have someone of Sherlock's degree of intellect one hundred percent focused on you, like he's doing now. Those eyes bore into John's, and he has to clench the glass and force himself to answer steadily.

 

“I think... medical school... Maybe become an army doctor.... I want to help people. ”

 

The teen's eyes flick away finally, ending the tension that rests in his stare and making John silently sigh in relief. Sherlock stares at his glass, taking another swig.

“I see..... I always knew you had a hero complex.”

 

John smiles at the expected cantankerous retort, feeling more at ease. He asks the question easily, but Sherlock treats it like a serious and intense manner.

 

“What about you?”

 

“I plan on creating my own job. A Consulting Detective. The only one in the world.... and I _had_ planned on having a partner..... If it's no trouble to you...”

 

He mumbles the last part in his deep baritone breathlessly, quiet so John almost doesn't hear it. The teen's mouth parts in surprise, then widens in earnest.

“You mean it? Sherlock of _course_ I'd want to!”

 

His friend looks at him then, doubt in his eyes. Sherlock has never had _anyone_ tell him before they _willingly_ want to work with him, and a part of him wonders for a moment if it's some kind of cruel joke. However John's face is alight with so much happiness and excitement that he realizes with a tightening in his throat that he's _serious_ and suddenly he has to blink very hard and fast to keep from revealing the emotions he always keeps just under his cold exterior.

 

Sherlock's voice is a little gruffer than normal as he responds with his usual pomp and disdain of the world.

“Good. Not that you have a choice anyway. I'd be lost without my partner.”

 

“I could write a blog!” John laughs as Sherlock's face twists in horror, and he nearly spills his drink as he dodges a swipe from his friend's fist.

 

“Don't you dare.” The teen hisses darkly, which only makes John snicker more.

 

“I can see it now, _Sherlock Holmes and the Gold Pocket Watch._ ”

 

“For both of our sakes, you had better at least come up with titles that don't sound like children's books, or I'll never be given any respect.”

Sherlock mumbles darkly into his drink, but his sides are trembling in silent laughter. He'll never let on how much John amuses him, even as he systematically irritates him.

A part of Sherlock almost wishes he _could_ get drunk, as while the night goes on John steadily becomes less serious and more silly.

 

He begins talking about his past schools, and the girls he's dated over the years. He talks about his home life (the good parts) and about how much trouble Harry used to get into. After he's had about six glasses, John's eyes shine brighter than they normally do, and he's certain as Sherlock leans over laughing at something he's just said that he's never seen someone quite so endearing.

Which is an odd word choice, because Sherlock is usually anything but.

However with his eyes relaxed and his cheeks flushed and not a hint of ire about him, that's exactly what his friend is.

 

There's a lack of stress in his friend's face. A childlike wonder at the world as he listens to John explain the solar system to him (which before he had deleted from his brain because it was boring and not useful) Sherlock is finding as his friend describes the stars and the planets all circling the Sun in perfect synchrony that he's never heard of something so interesting in his life. His eyes watch John's lips' move as he shapes out names like _Ursa Major_ and _Andromeda Galaxy_ , tracking the number of breaths he takes and the way he bites his lower lip when he's trying to remember some fact or tidbit. The two do not even realize how closely they've leaned into each other until John can feel Sherlock's breath on his nose, and he looks up with sudden fear and pulling excitement to become captivated by those eyes.

 

They blaze brilliantly. Blue-green. He has never seen the expression that fills their depths on his friend's face before.

His voice trails off, heat rushing up to John's cheeks. He must be really drunk, because he can't pull away. Can't think straight. He thinks he mumbles something like a curse word under his breath.

“.....Sher.......lock?”

 

A long, drawn out question. The darkly-curled teen shudders all over at the intonation, the feeling sending something possessive and burning deep down into his chest. John looks at him, eyes so wide and face so _open_ that the Detective wonders if maybe he's plastered after all, because it's incredibly fascinating, even though it shouldn't be.

He clears his throat, and is surprised to hear his normally solid baritone quake.

 

“John.”

 

An answer that pulls at the teen's brain and makes him lose all sense of self-preservation, and before he can stop himself, John closes the distance between them, sealing it with a kiss. Heat explodes behind the back of his eyelids as he feels his lips press against another's the shape of Sherlock's mouth quickly adjusting to his and responding with equal desperation. The Detective is unsure of what's happening, but his body seems to know what to do and does it accordingly. He finds his lips parting in ecstasy, a startled sound escaping their depths as John's tongue is suddenly shyly asking permission to enter. Sherlock finds himself encouraging it, a wonderful sort of heat tingling all over his body as he cups John's face with one hand, nearly dropping his forgotten champagne glass on the floor. John feels his teeth graze his bottom lip and he gasps, taking a shuddering breath that racks his entire frame before he drowns again in the heat and the burning.

The kiss slowly evolves into something more though as both realize with shock and wonder that the other is kissing them _back,_ and soon it's a battle of teeth and tongue as Sherlock presses John against the wall fiercely, a hand beginning to explore the contours of his arms, seeking out something that the Detective can't begin to name.

 

The low _Thud_ of his back hitting the wall barely registers with John, his fingers tangling in Sherlock's hair as he gasps for breath, the sound loud and harsh as in the dark their eyes shimmer for a second, looking at each other. Sherlock is like a cage around John's figure, his irises gleaming in the dark. His hands rest against the wall on either side of John's shoulders, and for a moment just a shred of uncertainty fills that face.

 

“I've.... it's never been like this before.... I've never felt....”

 

He can't find the words. They're lost to him and Sherlock lets out a small sound of frustration, his dark eyes tense. He's done so many things, so many unspeakable things with his own body just to get another hit and just to get more money. It's a lie that Sherlock is a virgin technically. Though he might as well have been one. He had no idea how to handle this well of _feeling_ behind sex, when before it had only been a means to an end. Was this dizzying vertigo normal? This fear of _hurting_ another person to form?

 

John however just smiles up at him, reaching out a hand so he's touching his ribcage above him, feeling the pounding of the man's heart. It beats in a quick rhythm, too fast to be composed. The fact that _he's_ made this usually calm drum become a complete and utter mess sends a stirring deep into the blonde teen's pants that is shocking and intense. He winces with the sensation.

 

_Fuck... is this actually happening?_

 

That hand sliding to rest at Sherlock's hips, he draws the teen closer, burying his face in the graceful curve of his neck. Their combined heat seems to fill them both, and the Detective can't help but feel John's own pounding heartbeat resting just underneath him. The teen's voice is a small groan as it vibrates against the shell of his ear, but it carries a command Sherlock can't help but follow as the buttons to his shirt begin coming undone under John's lithe fingers.

 

“For God's sake.... _stop thinking._ ”

 

So Sherlock's mind goes blank and becomes lost in the taste and touch and _feel_ of John. The dip in his collarbone, the taste of his flesh as he rather curiously bit and sucked his way down his neck. Little red marks appeared when he nipped and each time he did a ripple travelled up the teen's spine. Soon both of their shirts are off and discarded with, and with a faint caution to mind John's bad leg, Sherlock is straddling his waist. Both take into account with varying degrees of amusement and embarrassment their raging hard-ons, and both see in the moonlight something that makes Sherlock's throat catch.

 

John is covered in scars.

Every inch of him, lined in little whip-like marks tracing their way across his back and arms and chest. Old and new, pink and shiny and faint white. Layered and seemingly endless. At first John flinches away a little, expecting with an inner sigh the look of pity, the feeling of residual guilt in Sherlock's eyes. Except it never comes.

 

Instead he feels a long, gentle hand pressing itself against his chest, fingers splaying to feel his heartbeat. He looks up in those green eyes and sees only desire, a burning _need_ to categorize every mark, every notch and every line that makes up the story of the teen lying underneath him. And then John can't stay still any more, in a surprising surge of strength that Sherlock rather vaguely notices comes from his supposedly 'bad' leg, John flips him over so that he's straddling him with a grin in the moonlight.

 

His cobalt-blue eyes glow in the dark, and his hair tips that look gloriously mussed gleam like silver.

Shine like the stars themselves.

Sherlock realizes then he loves John.

 _Really_ loves him.

In fact the room for him in his mind in that instant explodes into an entire library. He thinks he feels half a dozen other suddenly meaningless subjects get tossed away, deleted just so he can remember forever the way John looks now down to the sweat on the back of his neck.

Scarred but strong.

Fierce and lovely.

 

He doesn't realize John looks at him and sees the exact same thing.

That he loves this man more than anything, and that he'd gladly go to war for him. Kill for him. He'd do it all, and Sherlock loves him enough to stop him before he can. To try and keep him safe even when every other facet of his personality demands to throw things into fire, to burn them down to their ashes and analyze them.

John is that exception.

It shocks him and dumbfounds him for a moment.

 

_Can I really be that important to someone?_

 

Sherlock's eyes answer him, blinking once.

 

_**Yes.** _

 

 

That alone sends his hand fumbling for the teen's belt buckle, undoing it and feeling with satisfaction the soft arching of Sherlock's back.

A silent encouragement.

 

Then they are back to kissing and touching and heat, his pants sliding down around his ankles and John's following suit soon after.

Then touching.

Gripping.

Fire almost too intense to handle. John lets out a shout before Sherlock's lips silence him, biting down on the agonizing liquid fire bubbling inside him to a boil and urging it on by fanning it with his tongue as he moans into his mouth. His breath comes quicker, the rhythm faster. The two rock with the beat, to a dance only they hear.

The spinning sensation of flame encircling them, warming them and then turning it into a desperate struggle. Footsteps to a waltz that is rapidly tumbling to it's climax.

John is reaching that point, that edge of no return. He's mumbling in Sherlock's ear profanities, and each one heightens the tension just a little more.

 

“Fuck. _Oh **fuck!** Sherlock **please-**_ ”

 

And then Sherlock is gasping in his ear, his curls drenched in sweat as he cries out in a snarl of half praise and half curse.

“ _John!”_

 

The two tremble in each other's hands, so close but needing just a little something more. Something extra. Voice ragged, free hand interlocking fingers with the man underneath him, John knows it will only take a single sentence more. He can taste it in the way the man's entire body quivers like a live wire.

Leaning against him, John jerks once, twice.

As he does he whispers what he knows will be damning for both of them.

 

“I _love_ you Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock's fingers come around to tangle in John's short blonde hair, his back arching and his entire body coming with a strangled mewl that sends John overboard as well. The two spasm in pure bliss, interlocking in each other's arms and shaking against the floor. All of John's muscles scream with the effort of staying elevated, and he collapses against Sherlock's chest and feels the Detective's arms wrap around him as slowly their bodies relax into a mushy sort of joy. A hazy calm seeps into their bones, dead tiredness sinking into their minds and clouding John's faculties. He feels the teen's hands locked about his shoulders, cradling him gently. He can feel his own heart pounding, every muscle quivering. Sweat seems to coat him like a second skin, cooling the heat that only a moment ago filled him and turning it into a chill.

 

For a while, they just lie there in shock of what they've just done. John considering the fact that now people's rumours about him and his friend are _true_ , and Sherlock considering the fact that now his brother would probably want to have John introduced to all of their estranged relatives. Both wrinkle their noses a little at their thoughts. Then the darkly-curled teen feels the body under his touch shiver a little from the cold.

 

Sherlock just has enough strength left to pull the blanket from the mattress, wrapping it about them on the floor. His voice is raspy and shell-shocked, but the chuckle that rumbles deep in his chest is real. He traces one of John's scars with a finger, mapping it out like star-charts in his head.

 

“Well that was most definitely..... _**not**_ boring....”

 

He feels the blonde teen giggle just a little bit, burying his face in the crook at his chest and inhaling deeply before exhaling a sigh.

“Summer is going to want to talk about this.... Not to mention my sister might kill you....”

 

the teen's blue green eyes seem to consider this fact as he stares at the ceiling, still not trusting himself to look directly at John's curled figure beside him. He hardly believes this is real, a part of him wondering if the champagne really _has_ gone to his head.

“Still worth it.... if I die tomorrow, it'd still be worth it.”

 

John is silent for a long moment, his fists curling slightly before reaching out to stroke Sherlock's face.

“Please don't be in a hurry to die.”

 

He murmurs softly, something fragile in his eyes. He looks into the teen's face, so easily worried and _hurt_ and Sherlock can't help it, he presses a soft kiss to his forehead, smoothing away the lines of panic.

 

“Then please don't be in a hurry to leave me and go off to war.”

He wants to say that's not fair, that going off to battle is a totally different thing. But in the teen's eyes is such unguarded pleading that the words die on John's lips and all he can say is

 

“....Git....”

 

After a moment, Sherlock replies.

 

“.... Imbecile....”

 

The two fall into exhausted slumber side by side, a mess of stickiness and blanket and general comfort despite the awkwardness that descends over their prone sleeping forms.

John is too deeply into sleep to notice the cool brush of Sherlock's hand on his cheek, eyes shining with unspoken words.

 

_I love you John Watson._

 

“Happy Christmas Eve John.”

 

From somewhere deep in his dreams, the teen answers back, breathy with sleep.

 

“Happy Christmas..... Sh'lock....nnn go to sleeeph...”

 

and like a command, Sherlock did without complaint for once in his life.


	39. Bottle The Solar System

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, because people haven't been voting for a while and it seems pretty steady where people want me to continue, I am cutting the voting length short.
> 
> The winner is a sequel after this story, and when that's done I'll put the remaining other stories to a vote again. I like this system, it works well XD
> 
> so without further ado, onto the story, here we go! The morning after! and some sadness as well.....

 

 

Of course when John awakes, the idea of sleeping on the floor does not seem like nearly as good a plan as it had last night. Knots ache in his shoulders where his bare skin makes contact with the hardwood, sticking because of sweat and sleep. Also there is a slight hangover, the alcohol a good enough brand that it didn't pound like it should've, but still enough of a nuisance to make him wince. When he flexes to try and relieve some of the pain his arm brushes another's, and for a moment the teen stiffens as he had nearly forgotten who was lying beside him.

 

Oh.

 

Facing the wall, John takes a slow breath, squeezing his eyes shut tight. His fists clench slowly and unclench and he half debates just going back to sleep, to when Sherlock would wake up and undoubtedly react badly to this and leave before him and possibly run off on some God-forsaken case before presents are even opened just to clear his head. The thought makes his chest clench tightly in his ribcage, and he frowns at the negative track his mind seems to enjoy to fall to. Sherlock's arm is leaning against him lazily, the warmth spreading across his skin at the contact. A light snore comes from his mouth, not loud enough to be downright awful, just mildly irritating.

Even asleep he knows how to walk that thin line.

 

Fuck it.

 

He was getting up and taking a shower. No way was he about to pussyfoot around this colossal jerk. Even as he thinks this, John is a little embarrassed to admit he's ridiculously happy that Sherlock's slept through the _entire_ night. He lets his knuckle trace the outline of the man's face as he stands, wincing a little as his limp seems to have returned, albeit the pain is less.

 

He shrugs his pyjama pants on but leaves the shirt because he can't be bothered. Then he roots around until he finds a clean shirt and pants.

 

He didn't need the cane any more, at least not in the short walk that takes him to the spacious bathroom just down the hall. Turning on the water so it's scalding hot, he strips back to nakedness and steps in despite the way it burns, encompassing himself in rivulets of water. The steam clouds his vision and fogs up the mirror, condenses in John's chest and makes his stirring thoughts come to an end. Sitting down in a corner of the shower, the teen lets himself curl into a little pensive ball and just concentrate on the feel of the molten droplets hitting his neck and face.

 

This should not have happened.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, John struggles to breathe evenly. He didn't regret it, _God_ how could he? The teen didn't feel like that what happened last night was a _mistake_ at all _......_ but it was right to think that it was something that would complicate things infinitely. For one among simpler things, there was the Dorm rule at the school.

People in romantic relationships were not supposed to stay in the same room unless married or under extremely special circumstances. Which was logical in theory, but practically had John panicking.

He did not want to go back to living in that tree, and quite frankly with both Harry _and_ Sherlock keeping an eye on him, he doubted he'd be allowed. The school was bound to find out, and he'd be moved into another Dorm. Swapped with someone, a simple trade.

 

Sherlock would not tolerate the presence of anyone else but John in _**221 B**_. Though the thought sends happiness tingling in his system, the teen knows that the poor sod who would replace him would never stand a chance. Grinning just a little, John tilts his head back and scrubs at his face tiredly. His hand searches for shampoo and finds it, and he works the lather into his blonde locks with deft fingers even while mulling over the problem. Mycroft might be able to do something, but neither of them would want to request the elder Holmes' help.

After all, he was kind of like an emergency key.

Though his heart tells him with typical compliance that this _is_ an emergency, it's really not.

 

Well.... maybe his new room-mate would be nice?

He tries to convince himself even as the soap runs into the drain, the smell both acidic and floral at once in his nose.

 

Then there was another problem.

The matter of their relationship _itself._

John would be lying if he didn't admit that a part of him suspects Sherlock might just ignore this whole thing entirely. Chalk it up to another experiment or something equally daft and selfish. Because whether he liked it or not and despite Sherlock's genius, the man could be incredibly childish at times. Pressing his forehead to his knees, he draws a long, ragged breath.

It would really all depend on whether or not the Detective decided to violently wrench out his heart like he did with so many of his dissections, or keep it and make sure it doesn't break.

 

The fact that so far the odd's of Sherlock choosing the first option are extraordinarily high doesn't escape him. After all, as the darkly-curled teen has said numerous times before in their interactions:

_I am a high-functioning sociopath. I do not understand foolish things such as sentiment._

 

The irony is that the blonde teen had almost believed last night that Sherlock's favourite saying was a lie. That he _did_ care. That John was important or _special_ somehow. The words of his Father whisper nastily in his ear, words he had heard so very many times before. Words that strike him harder than any blow.

 

“ _The world is gunna hate you because you're weak. Stupid. Pathetic. Don't **ever** trick yourself into believing otherwise.”_

 

John spends a lot more time in the shower than what really is necessary.

In fact the only reason he gets out is because eventually the water turns icy and cold, and he yelps in surprise and irritation and all but dives for the towel, turning the mind-numbing spray off. By the time he's dried off and changed into fresher clothes, he can hear Harry trumping about in her bedroom. The sound of her opening her drawers, cursing as she stubs her toe and the sleepy yawn that gives way to a mighty shout of

 

“It's Christmas!”

 

Makes John laugh.

That is until he realizes he picked up the wrong pair of pants, and in his hands is one of Sherlock's favourite pairs of jeans. The legs are much too long for him and the hips too narrow.

Then he all but considers jumping out a window, because if _anyone_ sees him wearing them even to the short distance to get back to there room, then there will be no end to the mocking and the insistent questions. Mrs. Hudson would probably bake a cake in celebration. John's almost willing to consider just walking back to the room in his bright red boxers.

It just might be less awkward.

 

_Stupid brain!_

_Why are you only firing at half-cylinders now?!?_

_You were noticing **everything** last night...._

 

That's when he hears a light knock, startling him from the glaring contest he's having with his own reflection. Sherlock's deep baritone whispers from the other side of the wooden door, and John can almost picture his leonine figure leaning against it casually, pretending that nothing is out of the ordinary as the rest of the Holmes-Watson band wakes up and trundles about.

“Forget something?”

 

His tone mocks lightly, and in response the teen kicks the door hard enough that there's a low grunt on the other side. Gripping the doorknob John opens the door a fraction of an inch, blue eyes flashing murderously as he hisses up at the sliver of smiling impudence peering back at him. The buzzing sensation of one of Sherlock's games hums about him, and the teen realizes with a flash of hindsight that the Detective most likely switched their clothes about on purpose just so he could have the pleasure of teasing him.

His hands tighten into aggravated fists. In all of his thinking, he didn't pause to consider Sherlock's enormous towering love for _toying_ with him.

 

“Sherlock Holmes _give_ me my _**pants**_.”

 

The teen's face stretches wider into a very un-angelic smile in response, the kind that John imagines serial killers have on their faces as they heartlessly tear apart their victims. Slowly he lifts up one hand, where a folded pair of jeans lies in a perfect stack. Eyes glittering with something predatory, he leans forward in lazy consideration.

 

“That depends......It's all about an eye for an eye... what will you _give_ me in return? How badly do you want to keep your sanity this Christmas?”

 

John can hear Harry, almost ready to leave her room. She probably only needs to make the bed like she always does. He stands there and squirms desperately for a split second, half debating just how much Sherlock is bluffing. The teen's cool eyes don't waver as they assess him, and he knows with utter _certainty_ in that moment that the Detective must feel _something_ towards him, or he wouldn't find it so utterly amusing when he gives in with a sigh.

 

“ _Fine._ When we get back to school you can keep experiments in the teapot again- but _only_ the cracked one mind.”

 

His smile is saintly as he hands him his pants, taking John surprise when he grabs them by leaning in and stealing a chaste but sweet kiss on the lips.

“You're loss. I would've settled for just that.”

John can hear Sherlock's laugh as the blonde teen slams the door, Harry just coming out of her room to see the darkly-curled youth chuckling like a loon. She shakes her head and mutters

“Utterly bonkers....”

 

As she passes the bathroom door on the way to the stairs, oblivious to the exchange. John sinks to the bathroom floor again, pressing his face into the Denim material and muttering curses. He feels his cheeks burn like a child's and how hard his hands tremble and can't help but feel very naïve and very, _very_ foolish for having doubted the man at all.

Dating Sherlock Holmes.

 

_Fuck._

 

There's a _BANG_ as he punches the wall aggressively.

He almost wished the Detective had just ran away like he had worried about before.

At least then he'd have more justification to hit him.

 

*****

 

“Oh John dear! You shouldn't have!”

 

Mrs. Hudson lifts the earrings to her neck happily, beaming warmly at the rather embarrassed teenager as he reclines next to the shimmering Christmas tree by the fireplace. Underneath it, everyone's presents shine brightly with coloured wrapping paper and bows, patiently awaiting their turns. By popular vote Mrs. Hudson was picked to open her gifts first, and the old woman had made clean with an impressive haul. From Harry there was a new woollen cardigan in soft pink, from Mycroft and Greg they had pooled their gifts and decided to get her a new coffee maker for her home since the old one had sputtered and died years ago, from Sherlock she received a cookbook, and now she held everything against her like they were precious treasures instead of just simple things.

Mrs. Hudson thanked everyone graciously, grey eyes shining with warmth.

 

John was surprised when everyone turned to _him_ next expectantly.

“.... Wait, you mean it's my turn?”

 

Harry laughs at her little brother's obvious happiness but confusion, handing him her present. It's wrapped in reflective silver paper, mirroring his confused expression.

 

“Of course. Your _boyfriend_ is all but _vibrating_ in place he's so impatient to see your face when you open your gifts. So naturally, you're opening mine first to keep him waiting.”

 

At the light jibe both boys freeze for just a second, wondering if Harry _knows,_ but it's obvious by her relaxed tone she meant it only as a joke. Slowly John laughs shakily, pulling at the ribbon in stoic determination. Sherlock spares a glance at his older brother, and Mycroft's smirk is enough for him to know that his older brother is now aware of the situation.

He grimaces.

Sometimes he wishes his family wasn't so observant all the time.

Then again, this was probably why Mycroft kept _his_ relationship a secret for so long.

 

As John opens the box, he wonders at what Harry could have gotten him. It feels heavy and square, almost like a book. Except John doesn't read much fiction, and Harry loathes hunting for informational textbooks. When he picks up the scrapbook, his breath hitches in his throat. There, smiling up at him in triple identical happiness, is himself and his two siblings.

Children.

Black and white even though he remembers the babysitter who had looked after them around that time had a coloured camera. For special effect then.

Robin, he and Harry all sitting at the beach.

His little brother's smile is huge as he holds up a giant beach-ball, threatening to topple over because of it's girth. John's waist is buried in sand, Harry's gleaming eyes revealing her to be the most likely culprit, his sister looking so wild with her curls blowing in the breeze it's hilarious.

With shaking hands he opens the scrapbook, thumbing through the dozens of other images.

Pictures he doesn't even remember being taken.

Memories he had forgotten in the pain of his old life.

Proof that his brother existed, undeniable evidence.

 

Wordlessly, he looks in silent question up at his sister, who's eyes shine as brightly as his.

“I... got some help from Mycroft admittedly. The cops wanted to keep them as evidence, but he convinced them otherwise...I bought the scrapbook though, I know how much you like that shade of green.... Do you like it?”

 

His throat is tight, and John has to swallow before he can respond.

“It's beautiful.” He says solemnly, and he reaches out and wraps her tightly in an embrace. At first she stiffens, and John wonders if he's hurting her, but as she gently extricates herself her smile is genuine.

 

“Sorry... it's not you really.....Happy Christmas... Sorry...”

 

She excuses herself quietly and leaves the room, instructing them not to run after her and to continue in her absence. Promising to return. A part of John desperately wants to go after her, but Sherlock's hand on his arm is enough to let him know it would not be a good idea. His hands reach for the next present, this one from Greg. He finds with delight a copy of _Grey's Anatomy_ under the wrapping, which he thanks his teacher for immensely. Lestrade's grin is easy.

 

“No problem. After all, as a teacher and a friend it's my duty to make sure you have all the things you need to chase after your dreams.”

 

Mrs. Hudson is next, and she hands him a hand-knit jumper that's warm blue. Feeling it's soft texture, John knows he won't go cold for the rest of the Winter and thanks the old woman, wrapping her in a hug.

 

Mycroft's gift is wrapped in sensible paper. No happy snowmen or singing angels, just plain blue. It's contents reveal the first two seasons of Doctor Who. John looks at him and begins to ask how he knew he liked the series, but the elder Holmes interrupts him with a cryptic glance, adjusting the collar of his suit. His tie is slightly less boring, green and red for the holidays. Greg had bought it for him, among other things.

“Let's just say I have.... _reliable_ sources.”

 

Sherlock snorts, but John just shakes his head and grins. This was his family now, as insane and odd as it was.

 

There's only one gift left for him, a small and sleek black box tied with red ribbon. He picks it up delicately in his hands, shaking it once by his hear to listen. There's a sort of liquid sloshing noise, and he looks at Sherlock once inquisitively before setting it back down on the floor to open it. He notices his friend begins tapping his fingers against his knee in impatience, wanting him to get on with it.

 

Sherlock is half-afraid John won't like it, a rather mad part of him insisting that he stop it's unwrapping. He silences that part of him firmly with nervous movement, eyes watching the blonde head before him intently. He _knows_ he'll like it, they talk about it all the time. There was no reason for him to doubt his deductions. John was a simple kind of person, he didn't want anything expensive or flashy.

He had picked the right thing, he was _certain._

The ribbon is pulled and undone, falling away gently. Slowly opening the box, John blinks in surprise.

It's a snow-globe.

 

Not just a regular, holiday one, but a type that John has never seen before. For one it has no base, just a round sphere filled with clear water. It's contents are not Holiday-like, instead it's inside dark like space. In it's center, Saturn and it's rings float in place, huge in comparison to Earth floating next to it. Jupiter is the largest, sitting solitary and immovable near the end.

It's the solar system. The opalescent dust is meant to be stars.

 

_He's bottled the solar system for me._

 

“Of course I have no idea if the planets are accurate in size and shape, I deleted the information long ago. If you want it can be returned, I just thought that since you were unused to living in the city and since I plan on moving there when I graduate...... on days where there were no stars I hoped it would ease your mind a little bit...”

 

Sherlock realizes distantly that he's babbling. Carrying on in a way that is very unlike him. He watches with one brow creased in worry as John says nothing for a long moment, simply turning the orb over and over in his hands. Letting the snow-like stars descend on the universe in shimmering splendour. When John speaks he cuts Sherlock off with finality, a part of him wanting to snog that uncertain expression right off of his face, a stronger part holding back.

 

“I love it Sherlock.”

 

The Detective's face lights up for a moment in a sort of hopeful smile. Then upon noticing Greg's arched brow he smooths it over with some difficulty to flippant uncaring.

“Of course. I knew you would.....”

 

_Liar._

John thinks, but presses the globe against his chest happily. These gifts are the best things he has ever received, and he closes his eyes and wishes he can look back and remember this Holiday forever. He's so grateful to be _here,_ to be _alive_ and to be present.

 

So glad he can look at the man in front of him and silently tell him

_I love you so much._

 

With his eyes.

 

His joy is so great he almost doesn't hear the horrible retching from the bathroom. When he realizes it's Harry, John is standing and running down the hall faster than he even fully registers. His heart is right in his mouth as he charges his way down the hall, everyone else right behind him. Knocking on the door, his voice is a breathless shout.

 

“Harry? Harry what's wrong?!”

 

The answer is forceful, immediate. His sister all but screams through the other side of the door.

 

“ _Go Away!”_

 

John flinches from the venom in that tone, hand resting on the doorknob. It's been locked. Sparing an uneasy look at Mycroft, John notices the elder Holmes appears to be in deep thought. He turns back to the door.

 

“Please Harry... what's going on? Are you all right?”

 

There's a long, pulling silence. Inside the bathroom, Harry stifles a sob. She clutches in her hands as he sits curled on the bathroom tiles the little white stick, now lined with blue.

When she responds, it's a small whimper.

Tiny and almost inaudible.

“Just.... Go away John.... _please_....”

 

Mycroft steps forward then, a calming hand on John's shoulder. His voice is placating as he leans over him to get access to the door, tone carefully free of all emotion.

“Harry.... can Mrs. Hudson come in? The rest of us will retire to the foyer if you are willing to speak with her....”

 

John's hands clench, something cold twisting in his gut. He resists Sherlock's hand as it tries to pull him away, but not too fiercely. He can hear the pause as his sister considers it.

She knows with certainty as her wrists lock about her knees and she rocks gently that if she refuses Mycroft will simply have the door removed from it's hinges. That she can't hide here forever, feeling nauseous and so very afraid and _angry._

 

Why didn't she wait?

Why couldn't she have waited until after today?

She didn't want to ruin everyone's Christmas, but John had been so happy with the scrapbook and memories had washed over her and curiosity had gotten the better of her better sense. Gripping her dark curls away from her face and heaving again over the toilet, she rasps out an answer.

 

“.... _Fine...._ Only _her_ though....”

 

Mycroft's voice is absolute, giving no room for argument. Harry trusts him, if only because she knows that when a Holmes promises something, he means everything he says.

“You have my word.”

 

Leaning forward, she waits until she hears retreating footsteps and John's restrained grumbles fade away before she shakily unlocks the door and lets the old woman in. Mrs. Hudson's face is too soft for her to stay strong as her kind gaze sweeps over the crying nineteen year old, and Harry can't stay composed any longer.

She falls into her open arms and weeps explosively for what seems like a very long time, letting out every sob she's been holding back after waking from nightmares, every whimper and every scream.

The old woman  takes it all in without complant. Mrs. Hudson is used to such outbursts, having been prone to have them occasionally herself every once in a while when she dwells to much on her past.

She is like a silent, soothing life raft, tethering Harry in place as she grips that soft cardigan to keep her from drowning in the dark see that threatens to surround her vision.

Drown her and make her lost to the world.

Keeping her from losing her mind in this seemingly endless void that keeps getting bigger and bigger, despite her attempts to make it a brighter place.


	40. A Sharp Knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summer and irene fluff, but plot too. oh the plotty goodness...

 

 

Early dawn paints the sky a blood red in the window, casting deep shadows across the tan floor and dazzling Irene's eyes that are only half-open with sleepy contentment. Her hair glints like a burning ember as she sits up carefully, the long tendrils tickling the back of Summer's neck and making her shift in her sleep with a low mumble of irritation. The young woman smiles at her lover's feeble attempts to burrow herself in the blankets as Summer's hands reach for more material, finally shoving over her half before curling up at the corner of the bedside.

Her parents had been out last night, which explained the pair's obvious nakedness and obvious tiredness from a night spent not sleeping. She stretches, cat-like and flexible as her muscles tell her that they are overworked but happy.

 

Judging from how deeply Summer's breaths emanate from her form, she'll be asleep for some time. A small, coy smile crosses the woman's mouth as she notes with some foolish pride and flattery that _she_ is the reason for such sound slumber. Leaning forward a little, she steals a chaste kiss against that freckled cheek.

Well, Irene _had_ warned her that she was more.... aggressive than most people when it came to sex. Something primal often rose in her, and there was a time she was nicknamed _The Dominatrix._

She frowns to herself then.

Irene doesn't like that nickname. Jim had given it to her. What was she doing, thinking about the likes of _him_ on Christmas? It would do no good to have such thoughts. She was already determined that _somehow_ she would gather up the courage to tell Sherlock or (she shudders inwardly) Mycroft what had happened over the holidays. The gnawing guilt to her subconscious was enough to keep her from sleeping at night, and she was almost sure she could keep Summer out of it if she was tricky enough.

The Holmes brother weren't the only ones with a higher than average I.Q at _Adelaide's._ Upon testing, it was found Irene's social intelligence deduction capabilities were at par with most private Eye's, and she was faster than anyone she knew at picking up on what someone's feelings were towards her.

Sometimes she knew even before the person did themselves. Which was why it had been absolutely adorable to watch when Summer had at first been trying to subtly flirt with her. That open face, _God._

A ripple of pleasure courses through her that comes to rest deep in her abdomen, and the smile stays on her face even as she carefully clambers over her girlfriend and off the bed. Grabbing her fluffy white housecoat even while reaching for her phone, her manicured nails flip oven the screen. 

Heart beats.

Fear.

Pounding a little faster at the little sign that tells her she has a text message.

She thought she had deleted his contact, but there it was.

Clear as day.

 

_**Funny. I think that's the first time I've seen you ask someone before using a riding crop on them. Have a Happy Christmas then?** _

_**-J.M** _

 

Her response is quick and callous. Like ripping off a band-aid, she doesn't bother to question how Jim knows she slept with Summer. It's just like a spider to have webs everywhere.

 

_**Fuck off and leave me alone. I did my time with you.** _

_**-I.A** _

 

She's trying to find air to breathe in her suddenly cramped room, pacing savagely like a wild animal. Her feet nearly knock over a lamp, and with Smmer stirring sleepily she finally steps outside, marching downstairs towards the kitchen. Jim's answer comes just as she fills and turns on the kettle, reaching for tea leaves on tip-toe on the top shelf. She can picture the mocking tone like nails down her neck.

 

_**Aw. Still mad? Isn't Christmas supposed to be a day of forgiveness? Good will towards your fellow man and all that?** _

 

_**-J.M** _

 

 

_**Nobody has ever told me how I should treat snakes on Christmas, so I'll say what I like. Now what the fuck do you want?** _

_**-I.A** _

 

For a moment there's a stretch of silence in which she leans back against the counter and glances uneasily out the window, as if expecting to see that frightening grin from across the street. She is suddenly reminded of when she was younger, playing hide and go seek with her friends in the neighbourhood. What was there names...? Ana something? Michael Bates?

She would always scream when they found her, because they liked to sneak up from behind and pounce. The same prickly feeling is running up and down her arms now, and she grips the inside of her elbows and trembles.

Irene knows she's being watched. Jim's answer is cryptic, and doesn't make the green tea that she now drinks to calm her nerves go down any more smoothly.

 

_**What do I want? Nothing..... I'm just playing the game.... Tell your little sweetheart I wish her well.... and don't forget that this is our little secret...** _

_**\- J.M** _

 

The young woman swallows thickly. He knows she's trying to weave around him, the warning not lost on her. The only question now would be who would pull the trigger first on the proverbial bullet?

This dance could turn into a bloodbath.

Who would make the other bleed more?

Shed crimson tears and die first?

 

Her hands steady against the counter, bracing her thoughts and doubts.

Firming them into fury.

 

Irene promises to herself she will be the victor even as she hears Summer wake up above her head and fall rather unceremoniously onto the floor. Her muttered curses are amusing.

Always such a klutz.

 

Jim would regret involving her. Sherlock Holmes was one thing, but The Woman was done playing these games. It was time for her to start fighting back.

The fact was, Summer was in more and more danger the longer she stayed cowed and frightened.

Still, she needs to air caution.

 

Make herself seem like not a threat. Better to be a bumble-bee with a sting than a loud dog with no bite.

Then she vows she will get the first knife she can wrap her fingers around, and plunge it straight into that demon's heart. Stab again and again until Jim Moriarty's blood coats her hands like black ink.

The thought cheers her up almost as much as it reviles her, so much so she manages a real smile at the elfin girl that bounds down the steps, wearing one of her oversized sleeping shirts and rubbing at one of the circular red dots at her neck.

 

******

Sherlock's pacing is a physical manifestation of John's inner turmoil, a way for him to keep from throwing something as he sits tensely in one of the foyer chairs, his hands clenched tightly into fists in his lap. He thinks if he could he'd be screaming, making vocal every line of stress, every tremble of confusion and pain. As it is he's shut himself off from the rest of the people in the room except Sherlock, and only because he's not sure if he _can_ any more. Greg has tried multiple times now to strike up a conversation, but the air has gone dead and lifeless like a corpse. Mycroft somewhere on the walk from the living-room to the foyer has picked up his umbrella, which now he twirls in a carefully composed way to mask his own stress. He doesn't like being unable to do something, because he can almost _always_ do _something_ , but here is a no man's land of open-ended boxes of _No_ and _Don't touch._

John's voice is harsh in that silence, demanding answers.

 

“Somebody had better spell out to me what's going on, or I think I might be sick. Or violent. Whichever comes first.”

 

Sherlock's voice is immediate. Laced like a coiled spring with the tension in the air. Like an animal he seems to sense it and become part of it, like a caged wildcat forced to let his energy out by cramped movement.

“You know already. You want to be a doctor,you know the symptoms.”

 

The words are not said in malice. On the contrary, something in Sherlock's voice is dreadfully soft. Awkward and unused to trying to bring comfort, but soft all the same.

 

A pause for a beat. Then John's tone is icy enough to freeze over a heart. Kill the life in the room officially. If the world wasn't spinning in front of him in a sickly way, he would have been standing.

Possibly pacing himself.

“I'll kill him. With my bare hands, I'll throttle that bastard and _kill him_ -”

 

“ _John.”_

 

He feels cool hands cup his face and silence him, pulling away his hands that grip his hair and tug at the ends viciously. Sherlock's face is right in front of him, and the Detective's breath flows over his vision and turns the red that he sees back to regular colour. He feels his hand, shorter but sturdier than Sherlock's reach out to intertwine with those pale fingers, and he forces a breath to move through his chest. Right now he doesn't care that Mycroft and Lestrade are looking at them with a mix of worry and relief, all that seems to matter is how he _trusts_ the words that Sherlock utters from his lips.

 

“I promise you that no harm will come to Harry. I won't _let_ that man anywhere near _anyone_ ever again. He won't hurt anyone any more. ”

 

The funny thing is that when John looks into the teen's eyes, he knows Sherlock isn't trying to console him. No, he wouldn't be so stupid as to do something like that as he would know John's first reaction would be to reject all pity. The man is making the promise before him because it is a _case_ to him, albeit one of the most important ones he's ever faced, and Sherlock Holmes never lets a case end badly.

That is enough to reassure John as he leans into his friend's shoulder.

Well...more than friends....

 _His_ Detective.

 _His_ sociopath.

 

He's still not entirely sure what he should call it. Boyfriend seems stupid.

Not quite accurate. Quietly, he closes his eyes and feels Sherlock's other hand run through his hair absently, arranging back into neatness only to mess it up again systematically. Possessive yet gentle in their ministrations. His touch is like a warm flame licking it's way across his scalp.

The room falls into the waiting game again.

The silent drawn out stretch of preparing themselves mentally for Harry's announcement to come.

 

 _Symbiosis_ seems like a good term. All science-like.

He knows Sherlock would love it.

 

A connection that cannot be cut even by the sharpest knife.

At least, that's what John hopes, because he had a feeling lots of knives were about to hurtle into their path.

Harry's being the least of them.


	41. A Miracle Among Tigers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, plot is beginning to start moving again! <3

 

 

“ _Come on Tiger, we're going to miss the show!”_

 

The first time Jim ever called Sebastian Moran 'Tiger' it hadn't been used sexually at all. That kind of thing, this lingering memory rests just on the inside of Seb's mind as he floats in the strange place between dreams and real life, curled up in bed. It lives in the brush of air between his open lips, in the scratches that line his arms and bare back. It is what makes up the man before him as his pale eyes open and see the Irish devil before him, grinning and rocking on the edge of the mattress. Yes, the first time that mouth had ever uttered the nickname, the teen found himself lost in the world behind those dark eyes.

One was not called by this man and simply ignore it.

No.

Once you were called, Jim had a tendency to drown you in the black waters that made up the madness, the genius and the seduction that was his endless game.

Well, he drowned everyone except one.

 _That_ man had managed to escape the drowning.

Which was why it was logical that Jim would want to finish what he started. Seb tells himself this sometimes when he has dark moments of anger towards that man.

Sherlock Holmes.

The supposedly 'great' Detective to come.

 

Now Jim says those same words that began this dark adventure, except now he means them in a far more sinister way.

“Coming Tiger? You're about to miss the show.”

 

The teen nods mutely, reaching over for the handle of his gun on the bedside table.

Right.

He had a job to do.

Jim was about to make a deal, and he had to be there.

Protection.

Defence.

The Irishman before him was leader, and a boss needed someone to protect him. Armour.

That was the teen's life now.

His mantra and his code.

A simple goal and a simple kind of relationship. Except often it wasn't. That was Jim's way, to make even simple things infinitely complicated. Toys. Everyone was just a living, breathing toy.

Sebastian wasn't proud of much in his short existence. His Mother had kicked him out of the house, catching him beating another kid close to death. He hadn't cared then, felt neither pride nor shame.

After all, the kid had dared to mock him in the first place.

See Seb wasn't inherently good or evil, in fact he would've at one point been perfectly content on becoming driftwood. Floating into dark oblivion as he future played out, neither harming or healing.

 

However what he _was_ was someone who acted like the people he surrounded himself with. He could only feel emotion if others did, because he had no emotions inside the strangely empty core that was him. Well, except a few things.

Rage.

Pain.

Sometimes love. But that usually had to be mixed with agony.

He had chosen to surround himself with Jim.

Slowly, the darkness has become something he's used to.

Something he craves because Jim craves it like the sweetest honey.

 

Sebastian wasn't proud of a lot, but he found himself proud of his aim with a weapon. After all, it was what had brought his purpose to him in the first place. It's what would get him into the military, years in the future. Except that part of the master plan wasn't ready yet. Still too many variables, even for Jim Moriarty.

 

His hands tighten about the handle, and he wordlessly licks his lower lip in anticipation. The desire to feel. That in some ways was the most addictive drug of them all. He would not let Jim die. Would not let himself lose his fix for all the world.

He would not miss at today's meeting with the Black Lotus gang, if it came to that.

 

Future connections.

 

The weaving web. Just in case the present plan failed.

Jim never left anything to chance.

 

*****

 

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson does speak. Only after Harry has cried herself hoarse, and only after she's stopped shaking like a leaf in a cold wind. Her voice is soft like a ghost of an echo, her arthritic hands weave themselves together and apart, creating a sort of hypnotic quality that the shell-shocked girl watches in numb silence.

Harry has never cried for so long before in her life.

She doesn't think she ever will again.

 

She's not even sure if she'll ever move from the bathroom floor again.

“There, there dear. On your feet. It's time someone had a long talk with you.”

 

Her eyes close for a moment, and she thinks she can disappear inside herself. That maybe somehow she can become Untitled. No longer Harry.

Could she fade away and not exist here?

Turn into a blank page?

 

No. Life was not like that. She knew this and knew that this _world_ would not accept that kind of disappearance.

The.... the _child_ inside her wouldn't accept it.

 

At the acknowledgement of her situation, she instantly want to be sick again. Instead she swallows the urge and grits her teeth, looking sharply at the old woman.

 

Harry's voice is low and shakes horribly.

“How does one have a talk about this?”

 

She spits, unable to hold back the vitriol in her breath as she curls herself into a ball, wanting to shut out the brightness of the lights. They sting her eyes and make her skin crawl, and every touch makes her want to shout out. A drink right now would be lovely, if she could actually bring herself to such a state of uncaring that she'd risk it's life for her own sanity.

She won't.

Harry is many things, but she is not stupid. She does not want to be treated like a child. Does not want to talk about this.

She does not want to be _saved_ from this dark ocean.

 

“The same way one talks about my husbands serial killings, or about Sherlock's addiction to cocaine. Badly and awkwardly, with shouting and a good many tears. I've had things thrown at me, and once Sherlock almost fired me. He regrets that day now more than ever though, mostly because he barely remembers it at all.”

The answer comes simply, holding no sarcasm or accusation. Mrs. Hudson's eyes are like clear rain on a summer day.

Quiet and steady.

Immovable.

 

Harry finds herself speaking then, faster than she can stop herself.

“No one wants to hear it. _I_ don't want to hear it. Some stupid sob story about a girl with a fucked up Father. So what? This world doesn't care. I don't care any more.”

 

The old woman's smile is sad, but not pitying. Just terribly, terribly caring.

“But you _do_ dear. Your hand hasn't moved from your stomach this entire time. You're worried about him, aren't you?”

 

_It._

_**Not Him.** _

_It...._

 

Harry does not want to start associating attachment to the growing life inside of her. Her hand clenches as she moves it away from her womb to the floor, scowling.

Of course she was worried.

She was terrified.

Somebody, _anybody_ would make a better Mother.

She was not kind.

She was not gentle.

She was brash and loud and obnoxious and didn't like little kids and crying eyes and snotty noses.

She broke things accidentally, snooped and was horribly awkward about everything.

Broken.

No life, no matter it's circumstances deserved having the likes of _her_ for a Mom.

 

_**I'm a fucking alcoholic for Shit's sake!** _

 

Apparently someone above had a twisted sense of humour. The thought is laughable, as in it makes her want to scream and put a bullet in her brain.

 

The back of her throat burns like she should still be crying, but she has no more tears to shed.

Empty.

Mrs. Hudson tries her best to fill that emptiness with calming tones.

 

“There are things we can do... to ease our fears... and dear you're going to have to decide.... if you want to keep him.......”

 

That was not the right thing to say.

 _God,_ was that ever the wrong thing to say.

_Who the fuck gets to make that kind of decision?!_

_How am I supposed to make that choice?!  
_

 

Harry gets up, fists clenched and her eyes sparking. Without hesitation she turns to the bathroom window, forcing the glass up and pushing out the screen and setting it determinedly on the ground. The old woman watches her, a hand on her mouth and eyes shimmering in silent apology.

She doesn't stop her from leaving, going out into the snow without a coat or even decent clothes. Doesn't hold her back as she uses the trellis on the side of the house to climb up to the roof. The cold wind blasts back Harry's hair from her face, turning her tears to frozen ice. Her hand scream at her in protest at the cold, but she ignores it.

Her scars are like red painted lines just on the inside creases of her bare arms.

Exposed.

Her secret.

Her shame.

Signs that she wasn't strong enough for this.

She was certain of it.

The roof is dusted with snow, but she's always been known to be good at climbing. She had no fear of heights, and even though she wears only slippers she's got a good grip on the roof tiles. There's a rest, a sort of outcropping of the roof that she had noticed once before and ignored.

Now it was a blessing.

A place to be alone.

A cold place, but a safe one nonetheless.

 

Curling her knees against her chest, she shivers and thinks numbly.

The old woman would probably go and get John.

She didn't want to talk to John.

In fact, at this rate she'd rather talk to a complete stranger than talk to her little brother.

He would be so sad. His eyes would look so guilty, and she'd have to bite her tongue until it bled because she would want to scream that look off of his face.

She didn't want an apology from Mrs. Hudson.

She didn't want help.

She didn't need someone to tell her that things would be fine.

No.

What she needed was a way to have just one miracle.

Was that odd, to be a grown woman and ask for the intervention of some divine force?

 

A single magic spell.

Clasping her hands together so tightly her fingers dig into her knuckles, she looks to the sky. Everything is white.

Christmas white.

Maybe a Holiday miracle.

Closing her eyes, Harry prays.

She never used to, in fact she often scoffed at others who did....

She didn't believe in God.

Still doesn't.

Probably never would.

 

_Please.... show me what I'm supposed to do... send me someone.... anyone who can make this okay... bring me something to tell me I can survive this...._

 

All that answers her is the cold wind. A few flakes of snow stick to her lashes. Frigid, uncaring winter. With a sigh she stands, preparing to go back inside before she froze her ass off.

Somewhere inside her and deep in her gut, Harry feels something flutter, tingle in movement.

Like a weak sign.

A symbol.

It's not much, but then again she never wanted much. Her hand flies to her stomach and she sucks in a breath, smile wobbily and unsure.

_It._

_Him._

_Her....?_

 

She couldn't even begin to guess.

Christ, she didn't know _anything_ about babies.

She'd have to read up. If she decided to keep..... it at all.

 

_It._

No.

_Them._

 


	42. Safe and Secret Love

_Age 13-_

 

_Dear Journal,_

 

_Jim has found a way to make the screaming in my head stop._

_It's glorious._

_Illegal of course, but with Jim what isn't illegal?_

_I've never felt so free, everything's moving at the same pace as my mind. **Finally** my body can catch up. That's the problem, I can't believe I've never seen it before....._

_Until now._

_Oh my God it's beautiful._

_I think I can see how to solve everything. Nothing distract me any more because it's all back round noise to my thoughts._

 

_To think, it only took just a little cocaine._

 

_And it's not even addicting, that's the strange thing. I feel no pull other than the tug for relief. The gravitational grip of wanting to feel normal._

_What if this is what my natural state is supposed to be?_

 

_Ever since Mum died.... I haven't felt anything like this before._

_I can't let Mycroft know._

_He can't take this from me._

_He takes everything from me, even tried to take Jim away._

 

_Not that he can even though he wants to. The Second year of going to that stupid school is coming soon. He likes to think he has all the time in the world to chase me down, but we both know I rule **Adelaide** just because of the sheer number of hiding places I've found. If I want to, I can vanish in an instant._

… _ **.. It's boring.**_

 

_I'm so sick of everything being.... so mind-numbingly boring._

… _. Sometimes I wonder if anyone would even care if I died....... I calculate it in my mind, go over how the funeral would play out in my head. It's as accurate as my mind-palace can make it. I wonder if my Father would reappear out whatever rat-hole he's vanished down. I'm sure my brother knows of his location, though he'd never tell me._

 

_I think white tulips would be nice._

_Not daffodils. I loathe daffodils. Useless reminders of spring and overly commercialized._

 

_Maybe death is like when I'm high. All super-fast and I spin inside the tunnel of noise and sound until my body tears apart and I explode into little bits of brightly coloured pieces of Sherlock. Like a piñata at a child's birthday. That would be...... well nicer than this never ending boredom._

 

_Please end this..... Please let this be the answer...._

 

That is one of Sherlock's last journal entries. There are only five more. Sparingly short and seeming to grow fainter with each page. Harry's fingers hover on this page longer than any of the others, blinking slowly as she comes to realize her lips hover silently on the word _please._

She can't be sure of course, but she doesn't think it's used in this way in any of the teen's other entries.

Begging.

Sherlock Holmes does not beg.

 

She twirls the pen in her hand that she's kept since Mycrot had come to her with medical information forms. With the reluctance acceptance, or rather announcement to the rest of her quirky family that she was pregnant, it seemed there was a never-ending supply of paperwork the young man was flinging at her. It threatened to topple on top of her, drown her in thin edges and black ink, and Harry was thoroughly sick of it......

 

There was this to drive her mental, and the fact that since her announcement she couldn't seem to get any time _alone._

 

Like they expected her to break into pieces at any moment, there was nearly always someone just around the corner. Just a shout away.

A part of this she knows stems from the family's collective worry over her alcoholism and depression. Yet she had shoved that part of her aside, left it sealed in a vault until this was over and she could mercifully cry and drink herself into a stupor without damaging or affecting anyone else's life. Another part came from the fact that she had admitted the fact she had been avoiding until now but the doctors would confirm soon enough.

Her body was weak.

Too weak to go through something like childbirth. Her Mother in all three of her births had nearly died each time, bleeding out to critical levels, and John had nearly died as well in the birth of himself due to poorly trained nurses. In all of her fragility though, she had still managed to somehow become _pregnant,_ so a part of her feels like this cautious supervision was a little extreme.

After all, she was barely a few weeks along.

Only she could see the change. The very slight flush in her cheeks, and the tiny but there bump just below her belly-button.

Her school uniform, new and lying uncrumpled on the bed upstairs, would soon be too small around the waist.

 

She's not sure how school will go, as Harry was privately sure that even in a private school like _Adelaide,_ she was bound to get talked about at stares. A pregnant nineteen year old, single and doing simple college courses (because even though it was a high school, it was connected to both college and university programs, which was how Mycroft managed to still get his work done and keep a tight leash on his little brother.)

It was laughable, and the set up for one too many tragic love stories and bad plays.

All she needed to do now was die on the operating table.

Fucking fantastic.

 

With a sigh she leans her head back against her chair, sparing a glance at John, who lies asleep on the couch across from her. He has a blanket wrapped about him tightly, a gesture from the darkly-curled teen who sits on the floor and reads with a sort of poise only Sherlock can have at three in the morning. It's only a day and a half away from school starting up again, and a part of her wants to scowl and chase her little brother with the bright woollen blanket up to bed. Like she used to as a little girl, she wants to look after him and make sure he doesn't worry about the likes of her. However the two haven't left her side since she told them, and a part of her reluctantly admits it's easier for her to sleep without nightmares with their presence.

 

Really it's John, Sherlock just follows. He's taken to watching her read his journals with a kind of impatient resignation, occasionally interrupting her reading time with little facts about his childhood, or explaining and clarifying what his child-mind had meant back then. He seems to remember every page, every line and every breath.

It's disconcerting, because he also likes to warn her when something bad is about to happen.

Harry listens as he tells her for about the fifth time that she doesn't want to read those last pages.

 

Sherlock loathes repeating himself.

He looks up now from the tome of _Practical Dissection_ , green eyes glittering coldly like their colour lies frozen under a sheet of ice. One hand reaches up absently, running a hand through her brother's hair. Harry watches those fingers soothe John's night mutterings, the tension slowly leaving her brother's shoulders and becoming slack once more with dream instead of nightmare.

His voice is cutting in the silence.

She looks into those eyes and knows he is aware of every one of her fears, every twitch of impatience and annoyance. Where that feeling calms John down it does the opposite for his sister, making her feel exposed and raw and predictable. She doesn't hold his stare because of this, instead preferring to let him state his opinion once again.

 

“There's no point in reading those last pages. I am who I am. By now you know I'm of no danger to John.”

 

Looking at how gently that hand pulls the blanket up closer to her brother's chin, she has no doubt behind the sincerity of those words. Harry tucks a lock of dark hair behind her ear, pursing her lips gently in thought. Slowly, she bites on the end of one thumbnail.

 

“What could happen in three pages that makes you think I won't like you if I read them?”

 

The teen flashes her an amused glance, flipping the page of his book. The soft gold light alights the shimmer in his hair, creates a halo about his high cheekbones. Sherlock bluffs her off.

“You misunderstand me. I tell you not to read for _your_ peace of mind, not my own.”

 

Harry grins then, not buying it for an instant. The teen's shoulder's have gone stiff with guilt, the lines of doubt working in his eyes. Oh he's good at hiding it, but she's become something of a master at bluffing due to recent events. She props her feet up on the seat of her chair, calling him out but not in a mean way.

 

“Liar.”

 

His grin is one without humour, looking at her with what is closest to the emotion of sadness.

“A terrible one, really. It's a wonder I don't get caught more.”

 

“No, you're too good for that. You're always too good to get caught. Which is why it scares you that John can catch you all the time.”

 

The teen turns the page of his book, not bothering to reply. They both know she's right, and Sherlock's lips turn into an unfamiliar feeling scowl of having to concede defeat. Except this one is laced with worry.

“I could lie to him. If I had to. If his life depended on it....”

 

He says the last part almost doubtfully, which shows how much Sherlock is at ease just touching John's cheek. Relaxed enough to show the compassion that runs in his blood under the cold exterior. It occurs to Harry that Sherlock's problem isn't that he doesn't _feel._

No.

His problem is that often he just feels _too much._

 _  
_His system malfunctions because of it, so he doesn't react like he should. Like he wants to.

There's a stretch of silence. Making the lights flicker with merriment.

 

 

“So... cocaine huh?”

 

The abrupt change in topic is welcome. It means he can raise his chin and scoff at her instead of wearing that same expression of reluctant panic.

Plea.

 

“It's perfectly safe, at least in my case. I'm not addicted.”

 

She grins again, throwing the journal into his lap.

She wouldn't read it tonight then.

If he was that uncomfortable with it.

 

“Liar.”

 

Sherlock's answer makes her laugh, hard enough that she has to cover her mouth to keep from waking John. Even so he grunts and rolls over in his sleep, forcing the teen to settle for rubbing at his shoulder instead of his hair. Refusing to break physical contact.

 

“One of the best. I lie so well it's almost like I'm telling the truth.”

 He takes the journal in his hands, strokes the cover in an inscrutable way. Then he tucks it back into the hiding cabinet. Safely away from prying eyes. Then he rises and presses a kiss to John's forehead before going off to get a drink of water, and the moment's strangely intimate and Harry can't stop herself from looking away and blushing just a little. For him to show such open affection is rare, and it's as if she accidentally walked in on them while.....

Harry refuses to finish that thought, because it's disgusting and it's her _brother_ and she already has enough nightmares, thank you. Still she can't help but feel a surge of contentment at how their relationship has played out.

They've healed each other, and are continuing to do so. She can only pray that one day, both of them will be whole. Safe and in love and free. Even though it's a foolish wish, she wishes it nontheless.

When Sherlock comes back, glass of water in hand, both Watson's are sound asleep. He lets out a little sigh, carding a hand through his locks before sitting back down. He wants to curl up next to John, but Harry's presence keeps his rapidly diminishing pride intact.

After all, he does have an image to uphold as a sociopath.

So instead he settles for weaving his hand into John's, stealing some blanket to hide the grip and lying against the arm of the couch.

The Detective falls asleep like that, books scattered all about and water forgotten and only half-gone. 

When John awakes the next morning, a part of him can't help but feel the fingers still interlocked in his own and think to himself that the man before him is the most beautiful thing that shines in the morning sun within the library.


	43. To Burn Out The Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, the kids are going back to school! :3
> 
> and with school comes intrigue and plot..... >:D
> 
> and so, we begin again....

 

 

Trying to get Sherlock Holmes to _not_ fidget while wearing a tie and uniform is like telling a raging feral cat to stand still right before he's being lifted into a bath. John winds up chasing after him all over the house, tie clenched in one hand and cane in the other. Eventually he had lost the cane while stomping down the stairs, leaping at the last moment to tackle the man precariously at the bottom steps so they both landed on the hardwood floor in pain and laughter. Pressing his knees into Sherlock's back, he manages to flip the squirming Detective over so he's straddling his chest, locking his legs to he can't escape even while lassoing the tie around his neck. All the while the teen struggles half-heartedly and glares up at him with smouldering green eyes, curls wet from the early morning shower he's had.

 

“I do not see the point of using force John. It's not like I won't just take the tie off later on....”

He flails his uselessly long limbs, and though the teen sitting on him is shorter, he's more muscular and used to duking it out with a slightly wild and savage older sister. John expertly ties a Windsor knot, drawing it up against his clavicle even while grinning like a kid in a candy store. He's panting from exertion-

Sherlock is bloody _fast_ when he wants to be-

but he can't help but notice that the end result makes the teen under him at once deadly professional and disarmingly attractive.

The man could say what he liked, but Sherlock always looked his best when dressed as posh as his name made him sound.

Not that John didn't like the rebel/rocker sort of look either that he had been sporting lately.....

Really, he would probably find him attractive even if he was only dressed in a sheet.

 

Sherlock accurately deduces the direction his thoughts have taken him and sniggers, eyes suddenly lighting up at the prospect of something _interesting_ happening.

 

“There. Let's see you untie _that._ ”

John doesn't care that his knot-work is shoddy at best, mostly because Sherlock's fingers are slowly crawling up the back of his neck and dragging his face down so that their noses come to touch right before their lips.

“Irritating.”

 

Those bowed lips melt into John's, a low grunt of _says you_ becoming muffled even as they both become engulfed in the other's presence. Tasting of teeth and tongue and feeling the texture of their other's skin, both do their best to memorize every possible line.

After all, they would have to act like only friends when they got back.

John find himself thinking somewhat heatedly that school might be a waste of time after all. That maybe Sherlock was right and they could just stay here and kiss and do indecent things to one another and to hell with it. However a part of him knows the teen would take his words all too gleefully to heart if he uttered them out loud, so he stops those thoughts with an inner sigh and breaks the kiss to lean against his lover's chest and stifle a groan of longing.

It would do no good to complain.

There really was nothing they could do about this, so they might as well just enjoy the moment they have.

 

They stay like that for a little while, though the position is awkward.

Neither of them particularly cares if someone sees them, as everyone in the house has already guessed.

Mrs. Hudson, true to her form had even made sure that a lock would be installed on Sherlock's room come their next visit.

 

 

It's only when the teen's back starts to ache from being propped halfway onto a step that he gently shoves John off of him, standing up onto his feet before reaching out a hand to help his friend up. His voice is low as he turns the cartilage piercing in his ear over once, eyes shining with an unspoken but restrained want.

“We should go. Harry's insistence on wanting to take the train's going to drive Mycroft insane with worry. He has to take the car and even though Greg's going with him he think I'll bomb it or cause a fire or something equally ridiculous. We should get our stuff to avoid further frustration. Unless of course you _want_ to annoy him.”

 

He says the last bit almost hopefully, to which John chuckles and shakes his head. His callused fingers separate from Sherlock's to run a hand through his sun-kissed hair, blue eyes flickering with warmth that the teen only ever finds in _his_ face.

Nobody else ever looks at him like he's wonderful and brilliant and _good._

Though more people were starting to.

It was all because of John....

 

All because Sherlock Holmes now had a heart to match his brain.

And now he had to go and _pretend_ like he didn't have one to show.

It seemed unfair.

Horribly unfair.

 

It's only when they're halfway out the door that John glances at Sherlock's collar and sees that his tie has vanished. For a moment he stops dead, mouth parted and slightly flabbergasted until his fingers on impulse brush at his own neck.

There, lying intertwined with his own is Sherlock's tie. Twisted into impossible knots and just loose enough that he hadn't been able to feel the change in weight, John realizes his fingers can't work it free from his neck.

 

Harry, coat wrapped about her tightly and grey pleated skirt making her eyes appear silver in the morning sunlight, grips the journals to her chest as she sees her brother come stomping out of the house and looking ridiculous with two ties about his neck. She steps aside just in time as a snowball comes hurtling past her head, planting Sherlock's dark crown of curls and making them white, his last cigarette before he was to quit falling from his mouth and landing in the cold white snow.

 

“ _You bastard!”_

 

The teen cusses good-naturedly and grins a devilish smile at her as she giggles, flipping the collar of his long black coat up as he begins to run away from the shorter, angrier blonde youth charging towards him with the intent to kill.

 

*****

The train is warm and inviting after having to stand in the cold for nearly an hour and a half. The station was simply too crowded as everyone was leaving to go back from their Winter vacations, and John had been forced to listen to Sherlock deduct the other passenger's sex lives. Now he flexes his hands in the heat, trying to bring life back into the knuckles even as he curls into his seat and listens to Harry read aloud from the brochure they were given upon entry.

The whistle shrieks once and deafens them, the carts lurching into movement on the track just as Sherlock's phone buzzes in his pocket.

He interrupts Harry's description of _Big Ben_ with a joyous shout of excitement that causes some of the other passengers to turn and look at him inquisitively.

 

“A new case!”

 

Immediately John leans forward, curiosity piqued. He watches the screen glow in the irises of the Detective as his nimble fingers scroll downwards, quickly reading the outlines of the crime.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Murder.” Sherlock answers with a sort of manic happiness.

“Apparently Kyousuke kept it from me at first because of the Holidays. Stupid, the evidence may have gone cold by now..... Now however with no leads he's finally come crawling to me...”

 

Harry snorts at the utter arrogance in that statement, but she's interested too despite herself. She leans over his thin shoulder, trying to read over him to get the gist of the puzzle. Sherlock however seems to be too engrossed to care, eyes flicking back and forth as he reads every line. John notices the frown that deepens in his features, and Harry catches a single word just before he slams the phone case shut.

 

_**Burn.** _

 

The blonde teen notices how every muscle has gone tense in Sherlock's body, how he seems to be struggling just slightly in keeping his mask of indifference for a split second before his quirked brow smoothes over. Voice low and a sudden knot of worry filling his stomach, John reaches out to grip his wrist then stops short, fingers splayed in the air.

Right.

They had agreed.

 

Once they were on the train, they were just friends. No unnecessary contact.

“Sherlock, what's wrong?”

 

The Detective's hands are pressed in prayer-like devotion to his lips, green-blue eyes glowing with a thousand different strings of knowledge. Inside his brain is whirring away, storing information and deleting it, shuffling around files and upturning entire boxes into the incinerator in his head. He knows the words he has seen so well, had heard them almost every other week for years on end, lying in long grass or doing experiments. He can picture that Irish brogue, the way it lights up as the sentence comes to an end.

The question is, what the _hell_ is Jim playing at this time? He had stopped playing in his puzzles years ago.

Or so he had hoped....

 

 

_I will burn it all to the ground._

 

Finally, John can't take the intense silence any more. Breaking his own rules he allows himself to brace his knees against Sherlock's. The man jumps like the contact is white-hot flame. His eyes reach to meet that deep blue gaze, and in his chest is an overwhelming feeling of panic he has to breathe deeply to bury.

No.

He was just overreacting.

Coincidence.

And even if it wasn't, he was sure in his capability to protect John.

Yet a part of him snarls inside his head, the part that is mostly dragon and fire and teeth. The darker part that likes to tear it's own sanity apart.

 

_How do you know if you can protect him? You've never had to protect anything before in your life._

_Caring's not an advantage don't you know. Bloody Sherlock Holmes, you've got a gaping weakness that anyone can exploit now._

 

Without thinking how John will feel, he draws his legs away and shuts himself off from the rest of the world. His tone is dead and flat, barring no opportunity for argument.

“It's nothing. A boring case. Nothing at all.”

 

John's eyes narrow in both hurt and confusion at the rebuttal, but he doesn't push the issue. Maybe Sherlock just needs some time to think....

He tries and fails to relax as he leans back into his seat, feeling the sting of being rejected more harshly than he was willing to admit.

 

Harry looks at the two of them, both looking stubbornly out the window and at the floor and refusing to give up their stony silence. She heaves a tired kind of sigh and rolls her eyes, realizing she would be spending the rest of the trip enduring this awkwardness.

There's a small kind of flutter in her stomach, and she strokes her abdomen lightly as if to say

 

_I know. Your uncles are morons. Big thick-headed morons._

 

_**Burn.** _

 

The word lingers in her brain, making the gears turn inside her mind.

Burning.

Fire.

 

_Jim._

 

But.... that was an irrational way to think. For all she knew it hadn't even been the word 'burn'. It could have been something like _auburn._

She silently soothes the discomfort in her mind this way. By making up excuses she only half-believed.

 

She watches the sun come over the hills they pass as the train, spilling itself like a toppled jar of water and splashing golden beams over her dark curls. The light turns John's hair to platinum, and makes Sherlock's eyes appear incandescent.

Both notice this fact about the other, and it fills with with equal amounts of worry and desperate love.

The tips of John's hair glow so brightly they almost appear to be on fire. It's makes his cheeks seem paler, his jaw more cut and his blue eyes positively _luminous._

 

The darkly-curled teen presses his nose into his deep blue scarf and silently hopes that this will be the closest he ever sees John near any kind of burning heat.

 

John sees the distance in Sherlock's eyes, and prays to himself that soon he wouldn't be forced to look into those eyes and see only the blackness of space and void.

That soon he would see the stars like little pinpricks alight and shine brightly for him once more.


	44. I Don't Hate You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some mystrade and plot. combining the two cause I'm a ninja that way. In all reality this story is building up to it's peak... I'm all emotional that it's gotten so amny views and comments and kudos D': 
> 
> MERCI BEAUCOUP!  
> GRACIAS!  
> THANK YOU BEAUTIFUL READERS. <3

 

 

Mycroft often wonders to himself why it is that he can't help but feel frustrated whenever he's sent back to _Adelaide's._

It's his own self-enforced sentence, so he shouldn't be bothered by it. He wouldn't _have_ issue with it either, if it didn't mean that Greg usually transformed during the car ride from the warm, wonderfully level person he was into the teacher he had to act like. It's almost like as he grips the steering wheel as he turns into the roundabout he can see the change, the way the man's jaw tightens just slightly, how he pulls at his tie a little more firmly. It's an age-old stress reliever, a familiar echo of the times when Lestrade used to have to get prepared for church with his family.

 

To watch those eyes shift from familiarity to professionalism is usually the hardest part for Mycroft to witness, because a part of him is relieved that it is this way.

It means that Greg is not usually looked at as a target, which when you're in a relationship with London's youngest and quickly becoming most powerful man for the Queen is a blessing in disguise. He usually only had to keep Greg monitored with sparse supervision at all times, because to an unobservant eye they were nothing but teacher and student to each other.

He knows the teacher has far less sinister reasons to hide their relationship of course (the age difference and how he thinks other kids would 'treat' Mycroft, not to mention how the staff would look at Greg himself....) but this alone makes hiding their relationship necessary.

 

They pull into the secluded arch of the school, where they can both go their separate ways without seeming obvious. Still the tension from the trip fills them both and neither speak for a few moments as the only sound that's in the air is the engine before Mycroft turns his keys. For a moment they sit and look at anywhere than each other's faces, before Greg finally sighs and with resignation reaches over and grabs the young man's hand in the slightest of touches. It's funny, because his lover rarely if ever loses his composure. It's something that Greg has tried to break on multiple occasions, at first when he had met him because it scared him, later on because he wanted to see My's true feelings. Even during sex, Mycroft was often polite and still managed to hold a certain level of grace about him, which irritated and aroused Lestrade more often than he would willingly admit.

In some ways it really was no wonder he had been through two divorces.

Greg was fairly certain a lot of it had to do with the fact that for a long time he had avoided addressing his own sexuality. After all his mother had tried to 'pray' it out of him, but it wasn't something he personally thought God would tamper with. He had loved both his wives, in a way..... but the man before him could make him feel like a teenager again with one glance of that frosty but attractive smile.

This young man has saved his life, on more than one occasion at that. He's completely turned his life around, changed it in a sometimes frightening but wonderful way.

When he had first met Mycroft, he was divorced and falling back into alcoholism. Threatening to become lost in the dark and confusing world that had been his childhood.

He had no one. Did not know how to escape.

And then he had been there, wanting him to be a better person.

 _Making_ him  _want_  to a better person just by challenging him with that infuriating eyebrow quirk and smile.

Now he was a teacher, and what was more a _decent_ one. He had a life, and a loved one, and he was happy.

 

To see for just a moment the shred of sadness, locked behind a mask of composure, Greg is nearly certain that if Mycroft were his brother he'd be shooting at walls or shooting up himself. That deep unhappiness in the tightening of his lips makes Lestrade want to kick himself for not noticing it sooner. The realization that Mycroft is _so_ young to have to take on so much responsibility on his own is frustrating and painful. It's painful to not be able to help, when he's been given a hand over and over again so that he can keep on going. But with Mycroft Holmes, there was no helping him. The suggestion alone was foreign and considered offensive.

Aggravating.

“Why do you keep on doing this? You have all the money you or Sherlock will ever need, it's not like you need the job....why?”

 

He's asked this question before though, and knows the answer. Mycroft pulls away, a thin smile worn on his weary face.

“Because I worry.... _constantly_ about him. I worry _constantly_ about you, and you aren't nearly so prone to danger. If something were to happen and I didn't have the power to stop it.... I wouldn't be able to live with myself....”

 

He trails off then, and Greg's tone is chiding even as it is soothing.

“You're going to wear yourself out My. You didn't sleep well over the holidays and you haven't told me what's wrong. Something's up and you won't tell me because you're afraid I'm going to get upset that you're involved in it.”

 

He forces Mycroft to look at him then, leaning forward and placing a very soft kiss at the crown of his ginger waves.

“But I'm behind you one hundred percent. I know you have to do whatever you're doing, and I'm not about to stop you. Just promise me you're not going to snap or die on me okay?”

 

The tension leaves Mycroft's shoulders just a little then, and he allows himself a small smile. He knows he probably won't tell Greg that he's dealing with a potential uprising of darkness, or that he has no idea who the leader of this complex web could be. His men have been on it, but it seems that whenever they get close there's an elusive slip or blank spot and they lose the ring leader again. It was infuriating, especially because no one was certain exactly what the man's plans were. There was seemingly no logic in his plans, yet he mastered everything down to such finesse that nobody had even been able to catch a glimpse of him on camera.

The shadow.

The mystery.

A black hole of secrecy that should not exist.

 

Mycroft wasn't used to not knowing things. This issue in security lately had been driving him to utter distraction. He couldn't help but suspect he was missing something.

Something huge.

 

Greg tries again, this time breaking through the wall of thoughts and endless circles that viciously chase themselves around and around in his thoughts.

“ _Stop_ My. I'm saying this as someone who cares about you. You'll kill yourself if you keep this up.”

 

 

“Everybody dies Gregory.”

Mycroft replies softly, leaning close so his forehead rests for just a moment on his. His blue eyes close, and the feeling of protectiveness fills the young man again. Lestrade is petrified by that gaze, and the burning determination it holds.

“I'm just doing everything in my power to make sure I don't have to _see_ it happen to the people I care about.”

 

_Caring is not an advantage._

 

How many times had his Mother said that?

How many times had he thought it?

The truth was, Mycroft's heart was startlingly huge and breakable for someone quickly earning the reputation of _The Ice Man_ in his meetings. It was the driving motivation for his coolness, the soul fuel for keeping him strong and inscrutable as he witnessed just how dark London was. As he saw just how many secrets lay under it's surface like writhing vipers. He would do anything to keep people away from the edge of the snake-pit he saw in his worst nightmares, even sacrifice his sanity or more.....

 

Because he knew he could handle it if it meant he never had to find his little brother's body lying cold in an alley, or see Greg's face twisted in pain and horror.

Or even watch the Watsons get destroyed from being surrounded by misfortune and family that should have no right to bear that title.

 

_But **damn** I just wish I could kiss you in the hallway and not have to risk your life being threatened._

 

Greg closes his eyes and inhales deeply, absorbing Mycroft's tension and fear and reluctance to let go of him. He tastes it and holds it on his tongue, eyes fluttering closed with the deepness of the flavour.

 

When he opens his eyes again Mycroft is gone, his dark grey jacket protecting his uniform from all weather and wind. Lestrade watches his receding figure disappearing into the shadows of the school's walls and tries to tell himself that he won't miss that stupid mop of ginger hair pressed against his cheek.

Won't miss those eyes that are cool but hold so much emotion in their depths.

 

Tries and fails utterly, after a moment opening the car door and slamming it shut hard enough that the windows rattle in their holdings.

“ _Holmses_ '. Always have to be the bloody heroes.”

 

He spits the name and shoves his hands in his pockets even as his anger fills the empty pang in his chest that tells him he's not actually furious.

Just very, _very_ worried and afraid of what is yet to come.....

“Sometimes I hate you Mycroft Holmes.”

 

He utters out loud, the sentence sounding flat in the silence of the school hallway. Nobody was around since it was the basement floor for the teachers, and he felt stupid murmuring to himself.

 

Of course, he doesn't actually mean a single word he says.

Greg knows he doesn't.

He just somewhat wishes he _did_ , because hating someone can be a lot easier than loving them.

One of the few lessons he hadn't minded learning from the divorces.

 

Love could hurt an awful lot more than hate.

 


	45. Invisible Game Change

 

 

“Damn, only one class together? Not cool, it's only Phys. Ed. too 'cause it runs all year!”

 

Summer groans loudly as she leans over their timetables, scratching at her honeyed curls even while seeming to be both graceful and awkward in her school uniform. It's obvious that she's just as contrary as Sherlock when it comes to the clothes that she wears, and that Irene rather than her decided to weave the little glittering pins that hold her bangs from her face. Her freckled face scrunches up into an annoyed scowl as she sits on the window sill of the second floor cafeteria, feet drawn up to her chest and skirt pulled down over her knees to cover herself expertly. John grins beside her, a canned apple juice in once hand that he got from a malfunctioning vending machine (though it may have been malfunctioning because Sherlock decided to kick it after he fully comprehended he had quit smoking as of now).

 

He takes a swig and spares a look at his Detective, who has begun to sink into one of his moods. He glares darkly at everyone and everything, silently bemoaning his loss of nicotine even while knowing that as the weeks would go by the slight craving now would turn into a roaring beast. He rests his head on his folded arms, quietly lost to himself in calculation over the case.

He wanted to go to see Officer Kyousuke, but being the first day of classes, even he couldn't ditch with any real ease. Normally it wouldn't really matter, but the issue was that since there was so little evidence to do with these cases that the small amount would be kept under high security. The chances of the man being able to show Sherlock anything of real use was laughable.

 

The body seemed to have experienced multiple beatings, as did the victim's wife.....

the beatings were consistent to each other's and from the laceration he would be likely to say it was from either brass knuckles or a chain being used like brass knuckles. Both of them had also been cut open with knives, their blood used as paint to write various obscene messages, among them the ominous _**I will burn it all to the ground.**_

…... It did seem like something Jim would do....

Except Sherlock knew that the evidence simply wasn't _there._

What was more was the fact that Jim hadn't killed anything in years, or at least claimed as such the last encounter they had. Though his old friend was a liar, and sometimes verifiably cracked, a part of the teen feels like he shouldn't be so quick to follow his gut like he usually does.

Jim is not really his friend.

Sherlock has known this for a long time. In some ways, growing out of that childhood state of mind was what had stopped him from trying to befriend others. Friendship's were often just clever lies and ways to use other people under the guise of kindness.....

But Sherlock as much as he'd never admit it, doesn't want to have to see Jim put behind bars. It would kill him.

He could be sick....

but not this sick.

He doesn't want to believe something like that. One could call it sentiment or whatever else. He didn't care what it seemed like to the outside world that was so terribly unobservant at times.

To him it was more of a connection, something more raw than that.

The boy with the chesire grin had been around even before John. He was invariably linked to Sherlock's life like a crimson cord wrapped about his neck. Yes, a red rope resting just at his collarbone.

Though John's cord made Sherlock feel so much happier and more comfortable because it was tied to his wrist and was made of soft silk, Jim's pulled and tugged and demanded to be heard in the dark hours of night when his moods became destructive and black as coal.

He owed Jim at least the benefit of the doubt.

More than once he had helped him up onto his feet from utter dark.

Even though often he had been the one to put him there in the first place.

 

“What subjects do you have Sherlock?”

 

Summer's voice breaks him from his musings, making him lift his chin from his hands and regard her with a bored expression. He's not sure why John particularly likes this hyperactive pixie that never seems to shuts up, but then again he's not sure why John bothers with people in _general._ Trying to ignore the echo of the punch she had once given him that throbs in his brain as he responds, he sniffs and pretends indifference.

 

“Nothing of interest.”

 

“Meaning none of your classes are with John then.”

 

Irene smirks as she comes forward carrying her breakfast on a tray, a bright red apple, scrambled eggs and toast. Her hair is tied back into it's usual long ponytail, and she smirks a crimson-lipped smile at Sherlock's glower before she sits down beside him, manicured hands picking up the circular fruit and taking a satisfying bite that crunches loudly.

 

“I don't see why John needs to take classes anyway. Pointless when I could explain to him everything's that's needed to get his diploma.”

 

John rolls his eyes, smiling that soft smile that usually means that he thinks that he's being obtuse or stubborn.

“There's something called attendance Sherlock. It's kind of important, especially since last semester mine was abysmal.”

 

At the reminder of his previous marks he sighs and tugs at the hem of his uniform shirt, smoothing out invisible wrinkles with his fingers. Summer grins widely, kicking her feet back and forth off the edge of the window childishly as she sings

“Joooohn is allll aloooone there's no one in his classes besiiiiides him!”

 

Both she and Irene laugh good-naturedly, and John snorts even while smiling just a little. Sherlock returns to burying his head in his hands, marvelling at how already his head was beginning to pound.

He must conduct more experiments to do with withdrawal symptoms, because his seemed worse than they should be already.

Experiments with body parts, chemicals, and maybe an explosion or two.

That way he could annoy John in the process, thus claiming his attention for a few hours before they would be separated for classes.

The thought brings a smile tugging towards he corner of his lips, even as he digs around in his pocket for a nicotine and claps it to the inside of his wrist.

 

*****

Mycroft's eyes narrow in disbelief, reading the report again and scratching the side of his head in impulsive stress. That is a telling sign for someone who knows him that he's starting to fray at the edges of his composure, not that the balding man with the scar on his face that stands across from him would be able to deduce this. He braces his hands against the desk that intervenes between them, tailored coat lines pulling taught about his shoulders. He's gotten a little bit taller since he's last worn it, must make a mental note to get it lengthened.

Normally it would've already been taken care of.

 

“Why wasn't I informed of this?”

 

The bald man, who introduces himself and Mr. Swayzee shrugs smoothly, a fixed smile on his face that's at once nondescript and vainly placating. He lifts his hands in a sort of surrendering position, pale eyes seeming colourless in the swarthy light of the school's office.

 

“I assure you Mr. Holmes, I was under the impression you knew that Mr. Bentley was resigning as principal. I've been told a lot about you young man, and I know how you like to keep up in information.... I assumed you knew I was taking over from here on out. Not that it really _concerns_ you, does it Mr. Holmes?”

 

Mycroft's eyes' narrow at the cool tone in Mr. Swayzee's voice, ice entering his gaze as he slowly looks the man over. The pale scar cuts across his left cheek, running down his temple to his chin. It seems to glow with the strangely translucent irises that do not waver from his face, and over his bulging middle his clothes are professional and clean.

Still, there is something wrong with his doughy features, something not right despite the smile just above his chin.

Mycroft has not played this game for this long without having some instinct.

Not to mention he detests being addressed as a child. Like he isn't in line for taking charge of most of the bloody government.

 

His tone is polite but cutting as he stands to his full height, mouth pursing in tension.

“Tell me Mr. Swayzee, do know why Mr. Bentley decided to quit so suddenly with little notice? I was actually well acquainted with the man, I'm just a little confused as to why he offered no words of goodbye.”

 

The fat man shrugs his great shoulder's, feigning indifference. Mycroft however can see a thin beat of sweat on the back of his neck.

“Couldn't really say, said he wanted to find is inner self or something like that. The man was close to retiring anyway. Now Mr. Holmes, I do believe you have classes you should be attending or teaching. I advise you to be on your way.”

 

The finality in the tone is a challenge, and he bristles at being so affronted in a room that his family has probably _paid_ for. Mycroft's knuckles curl against the desk audibly, eyes blinking in silent disbelief at the rudeness he's being treated to. A few choice words that he may or may not have become familiar with through Greg come to mind, but before he can say them Mr. Swayzee seems to take into account the need for steel in his tone. His eyes narrow infinitesimally.

 

“Now Mr. Holmes. Or shall we discuss the issue of your brother's tardiness and general attitude if you feel like hanging around? This is my office after all.”

 

His thin smile is callously triumphant. Mycroft grits his teeth and straightens, adjusting his tie. He did not have time for this. This whole charade was pointless. He doesn't bother to mask his silent fury as he turns away, stalking out the door. The hinges slam harder than necessary, but the elder Holmes doesn't care as he bites one thumbnail in fury.

Right under his nose, someone has begun shifting his network. Like losing a leg, it sends his senses reeling. He can't stand totally upright and keep the normal aura of calm about him. One thing is sure, someone wants him off balance.

Mycroft won't let that happen if he can help it.

Marching down the hall, he forces himself to breathe evenly.

It would be okay. He was aware of this now at least and could stop it.

He could prevent further surprises.

Playing in this large and rapidly turning messy war game, he just hoped he wasn't playing into anyone's hands. An enemy was one thing, but this opponent was invisible and somehow all the more ominous because of it. His fists clench, and he doesn't notice as he walks past the left hall the cherry red head of hair that watches him in mute worry.

 

Irene silently creeps away, the courage she had built up in herself to tell Mycroft everything shot from getting one glance at the way his eyes had burned with the unholy fire of someone intent on murder.

 


	46. The Hand That Taints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..... muahahahahahahaha  >:3
> 
> *cough* I mean enjoy <3 *coughcough*

 

No longer having philosophy with Lestrade is a strange experience, like stepping into a sort of twilight zone of startling boredom and loneliness. His teacher is a woman with greying hair and bloodshot dull brown eyes. She writes her name on the board in lazy scrawl, scratching it into the chalkboard even though there's a perfectly decent white board in front of her that would make less of a horrified screech. She is introduced as Mrs. Sinclair, and her tone is predictably boring and bland. Physics at it's finest.

John with an inner groan realizes he probably won't be able to stay awake long enough to even attempt to learn all the complicated equations that line every edge of the textbook that's before him. He scratches at the ends of his blonde hair and sighs, looking around in a lost way and trying not to feel too lonely at his desk in the corner of the room.

 

It's irrational, but a part of him feels like it's entirely unfair that Summer gets three of her classes with Irene, two with Harry, and one with him. In fact, Harry has almost all of her classes with someone else. While she viewed it angrily as 'babysitting', something in John thought she should consider herself at least a little lucky. He watches the other kids file in one by one, taking their seats and chatting animatedly.

 

However something is different with the way the other kids treat him as they come inside and notice his lone figure curled up in his seat, take in his oversized blue jumper and darker jeans. It's an odd feeling, but John suddenly is aware that he's sitting in a room full of complete strangers. Which is preposterous, because he knows these kids by face if not name at least. Many treated him in a friendly way..... Yet there was a tangible shift in he atmosphere as the other kids see him.

 

His skin tingles a little bit with embarrassment and confusion when he tries smiling tentatively at Tom Phelps, the basketball jock brushing him off as he frowns and turns away so his back faces John. Other girls burst into giggles when he tries to strike up a conversation and some guys mutter words under their breaths that are less than polite just because he looks their way.

_What the hell happened?_

 

John blinks in wide-eyed surprise, not able to fathom a reason for this kind of behaviour. He watches everyone sit in desks as far as they can away from him, forming a ring of suspicion and gossip that apparently he has been unaware of up until now. He had seen this kind of thing happen to other students every once in a while, having recently committed social suicide or having parents that were part of a scandal or something. It was a very high school mentality actually, and Sherlock even liked to make a game of it at times to see how many people would turn the other direction when he came waltzing down the halls, or how many girls he could make scream in science with one of his explosions.

 

Yet John had no clue what he had done to get looks of such utter trepidation and amusement flicked his way. It was as if he had become a pariah over the course of the holidays, a secret code sent among the students like a network. Finally, forming a perfect half-moon around his desk, only one seat is left empty beside him.

People stare at the space expectantly even though the teacher doesn't seem to notice, their eyes fixed on it as many hold their breaths and wonder if maybe it will stay empty for the rest of the semester. John matches all of their stares with his own and his chin held high, but inside he's reeling in total confusion.

 

_What's going on? What did I do? Does this have something to do with Sherlock? If he killed something already and left it in the lab again I swear I'll kill him...._

 

If it had been Lestrade, he might've said something. But Mrs. Sinclair obviously is as blind as a bat or just doesn't care as she dives into her lesson, voice monotone and cut from cardboard. It's intensely difficult, John soon learns, to focus on equations when he can feel eyes boring into the base of his skull. Making scorch marks crawl up his neck.

 

As it turns out, one person does arrive late. His footsteps squeak loudly in the silence of the halls, so everyone hears him long before he actually appears. The teen that walks in appears to be unconcerned with his lateness, slightly crazy blonde hair peeking out from a stack of large binders. His face is the kind of attractive that makes John immediately aware of his popularity, and he grins with an easy smile as he waves at many of the other students. Mrs. Sinclair's voice is dry as she holds out her palm for a late slip.

 

“Cutting it close on the first day back, Mr. Trevor?”

 

He shrugs his slim shoulders boyishly, face sly and calculating in the kind of way that makes John think of foxes and cat burglars.

“Just keeping things.... _interesting_ Mrs. S, wouldn't want to bored now would we?”

 

When he turns and sees where his desk is waiting somewhat timidly, the smile grows wider. John shrinks away from that gaze in discomfort as he feels himself being taken apart mentally, reconstructed back together piece by piece. The twinkle in those sea-green irises are not unkind, but not exactly mild either. A pale brow quirks itself up evilly.

John is acutely reminded of a certain dark-haired git of a roomate.

 

“And it seems this class won't disappoint.”

He murmurs under his breath even as he sets his books down. A few girls giggle, and John can't help but feel like he's about to become the subject of a most invasive interrogation.

 

Sure enough, when Victor Trevor slides into his place and Mrs. Sinclair turns back to her lesson, he feels that amused glance look over at him. His voice is low, playful even, but there's an edge to it that makes his words barbed even though they should be friendly.

 

“Well look what we have here, the subject of _all_ the juicy gossip as of late.”

 

His swallow is hard as John's fingers tighten to fists as they lie crossed on his desk, but his voice is even and doesn't waver as he replies honestly.

“I don't have any idea what you're talking about.”

 

Victor Trevor's smile is intensely amused as he leans over, his voice breathy but clear underneath the teacher's lecture. Few students are actually listening to her at all, most intently watching their exchange and hoping for something exciting to happen. John feels his spine stiffening, and hears the words but hardly dares to comprehend their edged meaning.

 

“Of course you don't. Most of them never do..... After all, it's all part of the notorious Sherlock Holmeses' game right?”

 

Throat clenching tightly, he closes his eyes and sucks in a breath before he faces the teen. Trevor looks at him innocently enough, chin propped in his hands and smirk hiding secrets. John knows he shouldn't, and is aware somewhere deep inside him that the hungry look in the teen's eyes before him longs to stir up trouble and cause chaos. Yet his skin is suddenly too tight, and he has to work to keep his vision unfettered by a haze of anger and confusion. His voice falters just a little as he speaks.

 

“W-what are you saying?”

 

Trevor taps out a smooth sort of melody on the desk before him, a rhythm only he can hear. Snake-like and twisting, his voice is lucid and twists it's way right through John's armour of indifference and into his brain like a carnivorous maggot. Strikes him worse than a blow to his gut and leaves him cold.

 

“I'm asking if it's true that you've become one of his _toys_ Watson, because there are people who have become them before, and they never make it out all right. I'm asking if the exchange student's a _queer_. And I'm asking if you're family's really as fucked up as people are saying....”

 

John feels like he wants to punch that grin off of his handsome face. Feels like he should be reaching over and strangling Victor in the neck, tightening his grip until his breath hitches and he turns blue.

He keeps himself in check, if only because he knows that if he does anything, then he'll cause trouble for Sherlock.

Worse is the tiny but insistent voice screaming in the back of his head. Telling him that the dream he's had was about to come to an end, to shatter into a thousand cutting pieces and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 

He glares at the teen, and this time is voice is cold as a brandished blade. He wants to tell Victor politely to piss off, but what comes out of his mouth is the little voice's top objection. It's top fear vocalized.

“ _What_ others?”

 

Victor's smile is deadly, and his voice is soft. John knows now what reminds him of Sherlock in his face. It's the cold calculation, the kind of manic drive. It's the kind of glint a person gets in their eye as result of spending time with genius and lunacy.

His a look of having seen how dark the world can be, and how little can really stand between that drowning blackness and everyday life.

Sometimes, the only thing holding it back was a single blue scarf.

His words echo in John's brain. Ringing out sweet, poisonous death.

 

“Well for starters John....... There's _me._ ”

 

******

Summer hears the rumours spreading even before her first class. At first, they're something amusing.

Funny.

A way to pass the time as she listens idly in her corner, blending into the background like a shadow even while keeping her ears and eyes wide open. It's a habit she's picked up from living in a large and male-dominated family. You learn to use your smaller size to your advantage, and to learn as many blackmail tactics as you can. Becoming one with the rest of the general school crowd is easy once you know how to vanish and become nothing more than a face in a mess of other mouths and eyes.

Thus, the rumour that Sherlock and John are in a relationship soon reaches her knowledge.

Except instead of the bewilderment and reluctant acceptance she's expecting from the rest of the school, there's a black undertone to their way of speaking. Not like when she and Irence got together, not the kind of joking mockery.

No.

Something alive and vicious that seems to spread through the school like a cancer.

Infecting people, she begins to hear whisperings that make her frown instead of giggle with joy over her friend.

 

“ _.... whore...”_

 

“ _Think he's at it again...?”_

 

“ _Used people before....”_

 

“ _Sick... just sick.... stupid exchange student... will be done with him in a week tops...”_

 

Mutterings, murmurings that gave hint that Sherlock was perhaps known for more than just his genius. Of course Summer had been aware of his drug addictions as it was often a subject of speculation, but this rumour was new.

Vicious.

 

Surreal.

 

She shrinks into herself as she speculates, biting one thumbnail in thought and gritting her teeth.

There's no way to tell who's words are true and who's are false. Things are rapidly getting out of hand as she attends her first period class, and she knows that if she doesn't find John and Sherlock soon and get them to explain to her what's going on so she can straighten the lies out, that there's going to be hell to pay.

The school's social psyche writhes quietly, upset at the uproar and roiling like a monster left unfed.

Angry at change.

Turning into a mass of foaming dogs that pull at their choke collars and growl deep into their chests as their eyes turn red with hatred.

It's happened so fast, she doubts anyone else except maybe Mycroft sees it.

 

 _Adelaide's_ has somehow been tainted into a war zone seemingly overnight. Touched by an invisible and violent shadow hand. If she closes her eyes, Summer swears she feels it gripping the back of her neck. Laughing as it chokes everyone, even though almost no one is aware that they are dying from asphyxiation. 

Leaving black fingerprints on her cheek and throat and making her suddenly afraid like she used to be during thunder storms as a small child.

Helpless.

No control.

Panic.

And the thunder would be when the students would decide to break into action.

Which she realizes with dread pooling heavy in her gut as she takes her seat for Art, would most likely lead into someone getting beaten up.

Or worse.


	47. Deleted Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> mentions of well prostitution and dubious consent....  
> yeah tread lightly...
> 
> The three pages :3

 

 

Harry Watson couldn't get over the posh-ness of everything around her. Her mouth would soon have to be taped shut she was sure, because she couldn't get it to stop hanging open slightly at every little thing. She felt like a pauper in a palace, wandering the halls and feeling more than a little bit foolish and small as her reflection stares back at her on the tiled floor. Her dark grey-blue eyes mock her silently as she takes in her dark straightened hair and smoothly-pleated skirt, and laughs at how she clutches her timetable and curses at how every room looks the same. Absently she pulls the long sleeves of her blouse further over her wrists as heated embarrassment threatens to make her lose her temper, and not for the first time she calls herself an idiot for insisting she go to her classes alone. Her sneakers click on the ground as she looks around for a map or poster like she's wearing heels because of the polish that lines everything and coats it like a shield. It's loud in the quiet.

Deafening really.

 

_Where the **hell** is Advanced English?_

 

Sighing, she's almost considered turning around and trying to test her luck and find her way back Dorm in the next building over, when the thought of the journal comes to her mind like a tantalizing wisp. Harry had vowed to wait until tonight after she met her roomate and got herself settled, but with the two choices in her arsenal being trying to find the front office again or settling down for a good read, she finds herself sitting down in the empty hallway and smoothing her skirt down over her knees. She's been keeping the book tucked into her blazer pocket up until now, and it rests heavy against her heart before she pulls it out into the open and flips the cover over. Like a Pandora's box, the pull was simply too much for her to resist.

 

_Dear Journal,_

 

_I'm out of luck it seems._

_Mycroft found out. He's taken away my funds. Told people. I'm in lock-down at my house and he's closed off all of the usual escape routes that he knows of._

_Four walls have never felt so confining. Every time I breathe I think the room gets just a little bit smaller. The light hurts my eyes the longer the hours stretch on, and I can't hear anything but these whirling thoughts in my head. I've been using the blanket to block out the sun, and I've locked the door and shouted at Mycroft every time he tries to see me._

_Idiot._

_This is all his fault._

_I'm in pain because of him._

_My skin feels like it's on fire. Licking up my elbows and face._

_Burning me._

_Killing me from the outside in._

_I'm sure my handwriting is crap at best right now. My fingers are starting to shake, and interesting side effect from withdrawal._

_My vision is blurring a little too._

_It doesn't matter any more. Everything is getting faster and faster, so many thoughts jumbling together. My Mind-Palace is falling apart, if I close my eyes I can see everything being torn apart. Ripped limb-from-limb like rag dolls and being thrown on a pyre._

_Fuck my head hurts._

_Make it stop...._

_Make it stop!_

 

In the last line the ink smudges and creates a grey-black streak, as if someone's nearly ripped the page with how viciously they've put their pen down to write. Harry can picture it in her mind, the teen rocking on his bed under the covers, writhing and trying to write to get his mind off of things and being unable to escape his own head. She feels her throat tighten as she reads the last few paragraphs of the first page, dreading the possible outcomes of a Sherlock that's been driven to the brink of his mental acceptance and capacity.

 

_I need cocaine!_

_I don't care any more, I must find Jim!_

_I have to, I can't do this. It hurts. My head... I can barely write...._

 

… _.I've got it....._

_Escape._

 

_Through the window._

 

_I think the bookshelf might shatter it sufficiently._

_Mycroft can deal with it. No big deal._

_Nightfall, so he can't find me easily._

_Jim told me he's meeting with a few others just at that restaurant near the school, discussing with some business people the construction of a laboratory._

_He's funding them to keep an eye on it, codename Baskerville._

_Some little eating place called the Greenhook._

 

The page ends, and Harry mentally counts down.

_One. Two more to go._

 

Her hands tremble slightly, and she forces herself to take a deep breath. She knows Sherlock didn't die in these pages. She knew the _real_ man now, not this wild and unruly half child half teenager that was dark and dangerous and unpredictable.

He became a great young man later on, save her and John.....

One wouldn't even be lying if they admitted that Sherlock most of the time was even a _good_ man, for all of his faults and quirks.

She had no reason to fear what she might read in the next pages, because that's who he was now.

The past was the past, it was just a story.

A memory of someone imprinted in ink that grew into a better person. Sherlock had told her not to read further, but she knows that whatever happened in this next page brought the teen to the state he had been in when John had found him. Cracked along the edges but lonely.

Brilliant and still wild but not as impetuous.

Not so naïve.

Someone had taken away the teen's innocence in these next pages, she was sure of it. Someone had made him stop believing in others.

 

Harry suspects it's Jim.

Knows it is, but she reads on anyway.

For one must always finish a tale that they have started, or spend the rest of their lives wondering how it ends.

 

_Dear Journal,_

 

_It's been a month since the day I broke the second-story window, shattering it and escaping into the night._

_I'm in a hospital writing this. The nurses are annoying, boring creatures. One is having an affair, typical, and the other is literally so new she knows nothing about proper patient treatment. I may or may not have made her cry when I told her that she was right in the fact that her parents didn't think she could handle being a doctor, and that frankly I agreed with them since she squirmed at all the blood._

_Mycroft refuses to speak to me._

_He thinks it's teaching me a lesson, plus he's currently preoccupied. He found a new distraction, and alcoholic called Lestrade._

_Boring fellow, but not completely stupid it turns out._

_Twat._

_Nobody comes to see me._

_It also hurts because brother made sure to tell them no morphine. At least that would leave me numb and compliant. I plan on making the hospital staff's lives hell as revenge when I am mobile, however currently the only thing not in agony is my wrist and fingers._

 

… _. I am not sure if it is worth recording these words, or why I feel compelled to do so. After I write this I will delete most of the memories of that evening...._

_It's just simply not useful for me, and clutters my mind. This will be the only time I reflect on this, and then I am done writing. It has done nothing to help me, and only serves as a place for moments of weakness. Then I will destroy these journals, or hide them away._

_This story has gone on for long enough I think._

 

_I made it to the Greenhook._

_Taking the train and with the help of the homeless network I've taken to building during long summer nights, I was directed towards it's location. Of course Mycroft's people tried to follow me, but I'm rather good at avoiding them. Within half an hour, they had lost me._

_The restaurant was a dismal looking place, not like Jim's usual spot of choice. I assume now it must have been because he knew I was coming._

_He always knew. I was played._

 

_The air smelled of piss and cheap beer when I stepped in, but people paid me no mind. It was a gambling place, people lined over their cards, smoky rings filling the air._

_Then there was Jim._

_Grinning, turning from his pint to wave to me like I wasn't dressed in holed jeans and a loose t-shirt. His arm was circled around the waist of a new girl introduced to his ring, a small red-haired girl._

_If I concentrate, I think I remember that her name was Irene. She looked scared, had recently moved out of her house and was confused about her sexuality and how to tell her conservative parents and as a result got into the habit. She had the beginning signs of an addict, pin-pricks lining her wrists even as her scarlet dress hid it._

_Her age....._

_To most it would seem young, but then again to most I seem young._

_Humans for some reason tie age with wisdom, and pain with knowledge._

_His words had been knowing._

_At the moment it had been the only thing I could focus on, I was so out of it and inebriated by the fire inside me._

 

“ _Looking for a fix Sherly?”_

 

_I remember how slow my tongue seemed to move, how it stuck to the roof of my mouth like molasses. My body stubbornly denied me of the speed I desired, and then it had been frustrating and infuriating._

“ _I need it Jim. I need some....”_

 

_Around him, a few people laughed at my obvious desperation. Mostly teenagers, faces that were familiar and yet indistinct and unimportant. All that was clear was Jim's smiling mouth and his dark eyes, glittering. He wanted something from me._

_Something that wasn't money._

 

“ _Depends Sherlock. Can you pay me? Last time I recalled you didn't even cash in on the last dose. You owe me amigo. Will innocent wittle Sherwock Holmes be willing to pay me back?”_

 

_I remember when I spoke, it was with utter confidence, utter savagery. I was barely able to keep my tone above snarling, and I shook so bad his figure blurred._

 

“ _Give me the fucking cocaine Jim.”_

 

_His grin had stretched wider as he hopped off his seat._

_Taller than me._

_Jim is taller than me now, though that's not hard to do. I'm smaller than most of the other kids my age._

_The girl cowered when he moved. She had known what would happen._

_What he would ask of me._

_She was in the same boat, and sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had asked her to run away. To let both of us bolt from our selfish desires and avoid the blackness that is Jim's sink-hole._

 

_I remember his voice had been right by my ear, one hand caressing the top of my head._

“ _Come away to the alley my dear friend, and you'll pay **all** of us in turn.”_

 

_Some of his friends laughed raucously._

_Irritating, I'm deleting the noise as I write this._

_Others looked intrigued, among them a Victor Trevor._

_I remember that one because of the way his hands had dug into my scalp. An aggressive type. Dominant._

_Easily insecure though._

 

_I followed like a moth drawn to a flame, meeting my fate with resignation of what would come._

 

_Mycroft found me in that alley. I was curled in a puddle on my side, eyes wide open but glassy. Water had seeped into my shirt and jeans, but I didn't really mind too much. It cooled the fever consuming me and turning my skin into light.  
_

_Filthy, unconscious from a blow to the head, beaten up. I bought the cocaine immediately from the money I got from everyone, and I was too high to apparently answer even moderately coherently. He knew what I had done. There was no way to hide it, as really semen coats clothes something horrible and stains, not to mention I had bruises along my neck and collarbones from biting and fingerprints....._

_I don't think I've ever seen him look that way at me before._

_Not angry._

_Not sad._

_Just..... resigned._

_Disappointed as he hoisted me up by my waist and used his umbrella to shelter me from the rain. I remember each drop looked like it was falling in slow motion, and I would've started singing if I didn't feel his eyes boring into my neck._

_I remember reaching out and trying to catch them in my fingertips, oblivious to my wounds._

 

… _.It's his fault....._

_Why he cares though confuses me. He always told me caring was not an advantage._

_I believe that now._

_Sex is not an advantage._

_Love is not one either._

_Belief in hope is foolish....._

_Foolish, toying emotions that I don't have the patience to try and imitate any more.  
_

_Gone.  
_

 

_Because even though it hurt, I would do it again in a heartbeat if it would keep me from losing my mind like I was about to._

 

… _..Delete._

_Delete delete delete._

_  
_Three pages.

Only three pages, and Harry realized Sherlock was partially right.

She did feel differently for him now, her opinions changed in an instant as the journal slides to the floor with a clatter.

But it's not the way he would have expected.

She cries for him silently. For the child that became a tired old man in the course of a paragraph.

She presses a knuckle to her mouth and sobs because she feels like he's her younger brother, and that he didn't deserve for something so awful to happen.

More importantly, she cries because she knows Sherlock never will because he can't even though he might want to, and that makes the tears fall harder and her gasps harsh. She runs a hand through and grips at her dark curls with shaking fingers, closing her eyes in pain.  
 

_Sherlock.... what did you do to yourself? How long have you kept this alone inside?_

She then sees his eyes and how they light up when he solves a crime, how his fingers whir into motion at a puzzle. Always running, always solving. Never stopping the rush in his head. Shouting, a ball of energy that refused to crumble or darken despite the deepest night about him. Sometimes burning to hotly, sending himself into a fever of rage and dissatisfaction that usually only drugs solved.

Except..... John.

Her brother's touch softened that manic light, dulled it into something far gentler.

Harry leans back, drying her eyes with her sleeve. A small smile crosses her tight lips.  
 

John.......

Whether he knew it or not, the darkly-curled young man whom everyone watched with equal mix fascination and anger, had begun to hope again, and it was all because of her brother. Not perhaps the most conventional or safest therapy, but it was effective. Relieving.

She had seen Mycroft smile more during Christmas holidays than she privately supected he had in his lifetime.

Lestrade too had seemed to be lifted from a kind of worry.

And Sherlock.... well he and John both _glowed_ when in contact.

The Detective and his partner.

With them, hope was inevitable as a good puzzle.

She suddenly feels a wave of dread grip hold of her tightly, sending a ripple into her gut. Harry clutches at her abdomen, silently willing calm into her body and baby.

She tasted worry on her tongue, searing as copper.

Fear that this tiny, fragile hope that had just begun to worm it's way into full bloom would not last here at school.

That it would burn, and that somehow, dark hands would taint it black.

 


	48. Black Hole Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complexities and angst mostly.... 
> 
> Please let me know what you guys think! :3
> 
> Seb's song is black hole sun, so this was kind of where I got the title....XD

 

 

Mycroft is furiously talking into his phone all the way into lunch break. Locked in his dorm and pacing like a caged tiger, his tea sits and turns cold on the table as for the fifth time he calls back his higher-ups, trying to find out exactly what's going on.

However it seems like in the course of only a few hours, all of London's security has been thrown for a loop.

Apparently a fairly high-standing diplomat was found dead in his room today, top secret information stolen from his personal safe. Safety security codes and the like, mostly to do with interactions in other countries. It could be possibly dangerous in the wrong hands, and Arthur Dates who was his higher up seemed to suspect the worst. Of course, Arthur Dates wasn't his real name. People rarely knew each other's real names when they got to Mycroft's level. His own codename when dealing in these things was Richard Bell.

 

The elder Holmes found himself as a result understandably but irritatingly put on hold as the government dealt with the issues at hand, something he was unused to. Waiting makes him chafe in his suit as he paces.

Glancing at his clock that rests on the mahogany dresser again and scowling as he cradles the phone to his ear, he knows he's already skipped teaching a class for this.

Unimportant in the full picture of things, but it made the last of his fraying nerves tear when he was subjected to dial tone again. Hardly caring any more he tosses the phone into the fish tank, where it rings for a few moments longer and scares his goldfish into scattering and hiding under the colourful rocks and pieces of driftwood before turning dark. The splash is comforting, a way to ensure silence as he falls into his favourite chair and thinks intensely, eyes flicking back and forth again and again over his organized but sparse quarters. Everything in elegant but austere condition, the books all dusted and alphabetized, not an inch of space unnecessary, not a corner of the room seeming to be left alone or untied to the rest.

Order.

Mycroft was good at order.

 

So how had things become so messy in only a moment's breath?

 

Somebody was ensuring that everything that could go wrong was going wrong, simultaneously at that to ensure that no one could possibly hope to save everything at once. However it was as much as a public as it was a personal grudge, as shown by the change over of authority. Which was not surprising in any particular way, Mycroft had made enemies as he had risen into power over the years. It was simply a part of his job, danger was just something you dealt with. Though he hated leg work, he briefly considered taking Greg the Watsons and Sherlock away and having them stay in the country for a while just in case. Yet if it was an overreaction, the person targeting him would then know all of his weaknesses and could intercept their escape and use them as hostages.

Not a desirable outcome, as Mycroft was able to admit to himself that he wouldn't hesitate to overthrow the Queen herself if it meant keeping his lover and his brother safe and sane.

 

He presses his hands together prayer-like over his lips, blue eyes glittering in calculation.

He could choose to let things play out just a little bit longer, but he had no idea what the enemy's main target _was._ If it was just simply him, he would be dead by now in a gutter somewhere despite all the security in the world. Which meant they either wanted information, or that he had wronged someone to the point where the person's goal wasn't death but _destruction._

That narrowed it down a little bit then, and his eyes widen in consideration.

 

The way things were coming along...

It was quite likely the person would reveal themselves. A pride thing.

The question was, would they expose their identity and then disappear to watch the events they cause unfold, or reveal their nature and demand something of him?

Could he pay their price?

 

Or was it something he would refuse to let go of, because if so he needed to prepare himself to take things back by force. Frowning, Mycroft lets his hands rest on his knees, knuckles tightening until he feels physical pain.

Too many variables.

Too many faces, flitting about in his own Thinking- Room, the equivalent to Sherlock's Mind-Palace. They spun in endless circles about him in his head, smiling and laughing and snarling.

Among them, Jim is barely a blip.

 

A student that was wronged and perhaps a little bit overly ambitious, but all in all not a threat.

Just a teenager.

A bright one.

A mildly disturbing one to be sure....

But not considered a threat on this level.

 

Mycroft didn't like underestimating, but in this case he had no choice. He had to select the top five or so faces, and have them as targets for his body guards and for his own set of snipers.

So the teen's face was stored away, those dark eyes glittering in the cold recesses of the young man's mind.

A potential threat for the future, but surely not right now.

Surely not now....

 

So lost in thought, Mycroft doesn't notice when his phone lights up again, signalling a missed call. If he had seen, he might have picked up.

If he had picked up, he might have known that a few teachers were concerned that Sherlock hadn't shown up to class. He might have been able to deduce where his brother was headed, and stopped him from stealing the car _again_ and driving recklessly off to the Yard, hot on the heels of the case. Then, the darkly-curled teen that wishes viciously for a cigarette even as he hot-wires the engine to live and listens to the purr with satisfaction, might have stayed long enough to have Summer find him. He would've seen her panicked face and known that John was currently having more than a bit of a panic attack and was a bit not good as he all but ran for his life, a group of kids hunting him down not unlike a wild animal through the halls.

He might have found out that John had gotten into this unpleasant situation by rather suddenly standing up in the cafeteria and punching Victor Trevor in the mouth after he decided to push him just an inch too far and called him _Sherlock's bitch_ loudly in front of the entire school and his friends.

He would have heard the silence in the cafeteria, the teachers staring at the normally quiet and well-mannered teen like he had snapped.

Like _he_ was at fault.

Like John was responsible.

He might have realized that the blonde teen's thoughts are focused solely on the stunning lack of a certain Detective as he runs, desperately searching for the man to demand an explanation and to convince himself that Trevor's words are nothing but vicious lies.

 

*****

 

“ _I'll fucking kill you fag!”_

 

John makes an incredible leap over a stack of piled punching bags in front of the gym, rolling so that he's instantly back on his feet in the next second and moving. His shoes squeak, shrieking loudly with the amount of effort. Giving him away, alerting the others to his presence. They drive him crazy, and after a dizzying moment where he pauses to consider them even though his heart is pounding and everything inside him screams at him to _run_ he kicks them off, allowing himself to go in sock feet even though they don't provide traction against the smoothly polished floor. Sweat beads his forehead as he bolts down the halls blindly, he can taste it on his tongue as it drips down both at once salty and sour. He grimaces as he runs, mentally praying even though he knows in a school this size it's unlikely that he'll see a head of dark hair and cool eyes and silver piercings.

Of course he wouldn't be that lucky.

No.

Never.

Not John Watson, who seemed to be lately attracting bad luck like a plague.

 

If he wasn't sure that if Trevor caught him he'd be found by the police buried somewhere in a snow-bank, he might have laughed.

 

Teachers seem to become scarce whenever he needs one. And John could use one now even as he comes to realize he doesn't recognize the part of the school he's wandered into. Not that it matters, all that matters right now is escape and _Sherlock_ except that _git's_ gone and disappeared somewhere and he's not sure where he can go where Trevor won't find him because he can't go back to the dorm because he'll never be able to outrun them in the snow with his _damn_ leg that's already aching and shuddering and everyone else is in class and he's not sure if Lestrade's class number has changed and-

 

His thoughts come to an abrupt halt as he feels his feet get swept out from under him, the world for a second flipping upside down before he painfully feels his head connect with the tile floor. He lands hard and harshly, the breath getting knocked out of him as little webbings of starlight sparks across his vision before they turn red and then black before settling back into normal. His entire spine torques for a minute, a cry that sounds only marginally human coming from his throat as old bruises flare to life before he opens his eyes and woozily has the face that's smiling above him surge into recognition. Like a rat in a maze that's come to the end of his tunnel, all that awaits for him seems to be the grinning cat that lounges over him like a king of a small empire.

 

Jim Moriarty's eyes flicker pitch black in their sockets as they look him over with a smile, red-brown hair haloed in the school's fluorescent lighting and making him appear almost angelic. For an unsettling moment John thinks there are two of him, but as his vision clears he realizes that he just has someone standing beside him. A tall, blonde kid with cold green eyes and a muscular build. Someone he could picture being on a rugby team and thriving.

Or alternatively out merrily assassinating the United States' president.

 

Either way, it probably spelled more than just a split lip for him if he couldn't wriggle his way out. Normally John would stand his ground and fight, as it was his nature. However even he knew when to call it a day, as six kids including Trevor sound from the other end of the hallway and laugh and what they find.

John distinctly hears the blonde teen's cry.

 

“Oi Jim you got him! Good on you!”

 

Trevor laughs heartily, and the sound echoes tinny and vague in John's ears. He might or might not be mildly concussed, but he can't be sure. Not when his legs are singing at him that they've had enough and aren't going to put up with his body mass any longer. He lies there on the floor, glaring up at the Irish-born teen that walks about him slowly, looking like one might when they've found a delicious meal.

 

“Hmm... I expected some speed.... but I Didn't expect news to travel so quickly.... Really John, your kind of story people seem to just eat up....”

 

In response John struggles to his knees, coughing air back into his lungs. He's hardly surprised when the impassive blonde Rugby player/possible assassin steps forward silently, warning him not to get up by the cold glint in his irises.

Silently, he prays that somewhere cameras are filming this. That Mycroft will see or someone will know and he won't have to deal with this mass of shadows that creep along and seem to absorb all the light in the hall. He clenches his fists tightly at his sides and forces himself to remain calm, mentally calculating how many of them he can take on at once.

Possibly two.

At best three.

At worst.... well _one_.

 

Trevor seems to sense his motives and smiles tightly, blood leaking from his lip where John got in the punch. He can remember how it felt, the satisfying feeling of knuckles against bone. Coming to stand beside Jim, he places his hands on his hips in mock-sympathy. Takes in how hard he's breathing, _Christ_ it feels like his heart might give out. He hasn't had to run that much in a while. Watching him wheeze is intensely satisfying to him. He wants to make John become doubled over in pain.

 

“Aw, looks like we tired him all out. Having problems breathing Johnny?”

 

John can't prepare himself in time for the kick in the ribs he receives. It bruises instantly, sending a jolt of pain that makes him yelp and fall back onto his side, clutching at his chest.

 

_Sherlock I fucking hate you right now. Whatever you did **fuck you.**_

 

The blonde teen woozily listens to Jim's voice, the only thing holding back the throbbing mass that wants their first taste of blood. Like a cautionary mother to a hoarde of squabbling vultures, he holds up his hand diplomatically and keeps Victor from aiming for another blow by placing one hand splayed across his chest.

“Now, now. The point is to scare him, not kill him Vic. We agreed after all, and this _is_ a school. A place for learning, or at least the _pretence_ of it.”

 

His smile is angelic as he turns, hoisting John to his feet almost lovingly. He cringes away from that touch, but with the blonde soldier-teen watching him with cat-precise eyes, he cannot dare to shrink away or punch him. The other thing that John is not willing to admit is the trembling in his limbs when he looks into those eyes. Pitch dark pits that glow with an unhealthy light.

An evil sort of madness.

Jim's voice is tender-soft as he rights the teen back into his legs.

 

“After all, John is one of _us_ now Victor, or will become like us soon enough. We want to be welcoming right?”

 

Victor snorts a little but holds back, a callous smile crossing his lips. John removes himself from Jim's grip, blue eyes flickering in tension, fear and suspicion.

“I'm nothing like you lot at all.”

 

He manages, voice staying steady. The response though is not what he expected. It's actually worse. Jim laughs, and the sound is low and sinister and completely unhinged and John can't help but try and back away only to bump into the shadow of the tall blonde youth.

Trapped cornered.

 

When the Irish teen finishes he's clutching his sides like John's told the best joke in the world, wiping tears from his eyes as he grins. Gasping for air, he claps a hand on John's shoulder in an overly-familiar way that makes him want to put a pencil through his arm.

“That's the best part John, is you don't even _know_ how alike we are.”

His smile is luminescent, and the grip tightens so that John winces and has to work to stay standing. Jim forces him to look straight ahead, face him straight in the eye and _see_ the dark swimming in there, calling out to him to drown him under the waves.

 

When Victor speaks, his tone is mocking.

“We've all been left behind. All of us. After all, where's Sherlock Holmes now John? Do you know where he even is?”

 

John has to swallow his stubborn assertion that he _did_ know, because with a clenching in his stomach he knows it's a lie. A thousand excuses float to the forefront of his mind, and the nasty coil of doubt shoots them down systematically.

_There was no way he could've known...._

_**But he likes to know everything, doesn't he?** _

_There's a case...._

_**So cases are more important to him than you?** _

_That's not true. I love the stupid git._

… _ **. But does he love you back in the same way?**_

 

As if reading his mind, Jim's smile stretches a little wider. He releases his grip, extending it into an open hand. It extends like a trap, willing John's fingers to connect to it and seal his fate. His eyes are predatory and gleam with amusement and a frightening intelligence. A frightening knowledge of John's worst fears realized.

“Care to ask us some questions and get some answers over a cuppa?”

 

_John don't._

Sherlock's voice, shouting at the back of his head. He feels relief at the sound and anger, still miffed at how he was treated on the train. The logical sound of reasoning, his Sherlock Holmes was telling him to stay away. Still it calls out to him that hand. Demanding his attention.

_Trap. Don't do it... Trap John!_

 

The warning bells screech in his head, flashing red lights. His sides ache with the bruises that have affronted him. Telling him that this is a bad idea.

_Not good._

_Don't._

 

Victor smiles, pushing him just a little bit further.

“Come on John. You _know_ he hides secrets....”

 

Yes.

Yes he did.

John had known that from the start. Had known from the moment he realized he loved the man that Sherlock liked to keep himself private. Wrapped in chains and held aloof from everyone else with barbed wire and wailing sirens. He liked to be inhuman, and even though John had dodged all the wiring and security, most days he still faced an unbreakable wall of thickest concrete and ire.

He finds his hand reaching out for Jim's before he paused, voice coiled and strained.

What would he think if he saw this?

Would he see the weakness and cowardice that John felt every time he chose to keep a secret from him?

Would he see how useless John could feel sometimes when beside someone so truly brilliant and _great?_

The fear that the group of kids would go after the detective as well if he would not comply hardens his resolve.

His voice is firm and unshakable.

 

“One condition....He doesn't know about this... You leave him alone... You don't go after him for any reason!”

 

Jim's smile is light, and he takes John's hand in his own and shakes it.

 

_**I won't even have to Johnny, I've just captured his heart.** _

 

He thinks inside.

 

“Deal.”

 

He murmurs, turning to Sebastian. With a casual wave of his hand, Jim Moriarty turns and walks away.

“Take him to our dorm Seb. See he's comfortable and Victor can answer all his questions accordingly.”

 

He doesn't have to bother to tell him the other part of his order, the one that's passed in the air by the glint of his teeth in the light.

 

_**If he doesn't agree to back down..... make him disappear.** _

 

John sees Sebastian's brief flash of a smile and shudders. His eyes are also like twin black holes, despite their light colouring. Empty and yet burning with a fire. A sun that orbits a nightmarish vortex, caught in it's gravity already too long to ever possibly escape.

It's something he'd rather not ever see again as he's lead away down the halls, down twisting passageways he didn't even know existed within the school.

He hopes he won't become like Sebastian, if he follows. Hopes he can leave this darkness long behind him, but he begins to dread that he's made a promise that will choke him in a noose and leave him black and blue in the snow.

Down rabbit-holes of darkness and unsettling dead-ends.

_Sherlock.... I'm sorry. Please find out what's going on quickly eh? One miracle for me okay? Just one miracle is all I ask.... Tell me they're wrong about you. Convince me they're all wrong. I believe in you._

_I believe.....  
_


	49. Puzzle With a Missing Piece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so.... fluff mixed with murder?  
> Of course!  
> Sherlock doesn't understand that forgiveness should be earned and not just given...
> 
> Can you guess any part of the puzzle? >:3

 

 

Sherlock shows up at the Yard by mid afternoon, cutting the engine and jogging up the flight of steps with practiced ease. It occurred to him on his trip that he's broken his own vows to himself, to stay in class for one day.

A stupid vow, when the case obviously called him and demanded his attention and screamed for him.

Pulling him like sweet nectar that he thirsts for.

John would understand, right?

That kind of craving..... worse than withdrawal or the pain of quitting cigarettes.

He couldn't make him quit this, even for one day. It was simply impossible to keep Sherlock Holmes away from a fascinating puzzle.

Yes, John would understand, which is why he's decidedly ignoring the voice shouting in his head that he's being unbelievably stupid.

That his partner would be angry he didn't at least _tell_ him.

But then John would've wanted to come along, and this time that was unacceptable. Not a possible variable.

No.

It was right not to tell him.

Even though he was annoyed now, he'd forgive him.

Sherlock was sure.

When he got back, he'd make it up to him if he had to. In many, _many_ ways that probably broke their other vow to keep their relationship under wraps.

Another stupid rule. One that was begging to be bent, preferably through teeth and tongue and touch and taste. Images flicker through his mind then, perfect memories of how it had felt to have John in his hands, the burning sensation that had crawled about his spine when he had elicited _those_ kinds of sounds out of _his_ partner.

His John.

For a moment he is so distracted, he very nearly crashes into another car while trying to park.

That brings him back to reality.

_Right._

_John later._

_Case now._

_Married to the work, married to the work...._

 

His mantra in moments of weakness.

He wouldn't ever admit to the redness he sees in his own cheeks in the rear view mirror, the heat that builds in his stomach and turns his insides into a strange eruption of bubbles that's not entirely unpleasant.

 

His breath trails from behind him with a dragon's wisp, curling outwards before he opens the door and lets himself in without hesitation. His scarf is woven tightly about his neck, and he loosens it because of the blast of heat that greets him upon entry. He stands among an intricate criss-crossing of crowds, everyone dressed in suits or uniform, and elaborate dance of grey, blue and black all weaving about. He stands out like a darker stain, both taller and thinner than most of the people that pause in reviewing their paperwork to regard him carefully. He reads them all almost carelessly, eyes flicking about even as he searches for Kyousuke.

 

_That one's contemplating suicide... won't go through with it though, too passive._

_That one's having an interesting affair with his secretary, absent wedding ring but a green mark. It's cheaply made, and shows how their marriage never really took off from the juvenile stages of teenage sweethearts. It's burnt out by now. That one's a police officer, hero complex but clumsy and disorganized. His eyes are dilated, nicotine cravings._

 

His own observations remind him sharply of his own cravings, and he cusses in his head even as he sees the grey-black head of the Chief Investigator.

Kyousuke looks sharply thinner than when Sherlock last observed him as he turns and smiles thinly, reaching out his hand in a limp handshake.

_Hasn't slept well in about a week._

_Fighting within his family due to work stress._

_Guilt._

_Oh, he left his son squalling to the hands of his wife this morning._

_Was running late._

 

“I'm glad you're here.... things have been going mad here as of late. Nobody knows what they're doing, but you probably can tell already. Where's John?”

 

Sherlock doesn't bother to confirm what he does or does not know, as he knows even more than the Officer probably suspects.

He watches the man's eyebrows lower in mild concern as he looks for the thin blonde boy with round blue eyes, as if expecting him to be hiding somewhere inside Sherlock's long black coat like a magnifying glass.

Ridiculous.

 

“He's at school. Didn't want to miss his first day back at classes.”

He lies smoothly, face impassive as he moves forward to take a look at the brown case envelope that lies on the smooth metallic cafe table beside them. He lifts it into the air, a brow quirked inquisitively.

“Shall we get down to business?”

 

Downing the last of a rather cold cup of coffee, Kyousuke nods grimly. His shoulders set as if preparing to launch himself into a battle.

“Right. My office, it's this way.”

 

Turning, he briefly cards a hand through his hair, then sets off at a steady pace. Sherlock follows after a beat, almost turning for a moment to impatiently call for John until he remembered he wasn't there. A stubborn frown crosses his once-excited features. He wonders at the confusing pang that rings in his chest for a second.

_Idiot._

_You've done this long enough now that you don't need him to be here._

_He's better off at class right now. At least until you're certain he's not a target._

 

He follows behind determinedly, refusing to look behind him any more. Like a leering shade his shadow casts against Kyousuke's and dwarfs it with his height, fated to inexorably follow it's master to the little room that lies on the second floor past gilded elevators and stairs.

 

*****

 

The murders in a word, are fascinating.

Complex puzzles that at first glance are not connected, but on deeper inspection can't be anything _but_ interwoven and interlocked. Just subtle enough that at first Kyousuke had assumed the homicides had been unrelated, but enough that Sherlock found it obvious as he pinned the images up onto the board and looks hard at them.

Ten murders.

 

Ten lives.

 

Two knew each other, that was purely coincidence though. Daniel and Olivia Fairgrew. The others were all random. Seemingly unrelated murders and faces, all of different ethnic origin, sex and social positions.

Daniel Fairgrew.

Olivia Fairgrew.

Yoko Woods.

Ian Crassbin.

Winter Brown.

Emmet Dorian.

Oliver Grates.

Mimi Dawson.

Errol Laow.

and

Ustace Bearn.

 

Meaningless.

 

All of them murdered in grisly but varying ways, only one with a message. _**I will burn it all to the ground.**_

 

Jim's favourite saying.

Except Jim _wasn't_ a suspect....

Probably.

Maybe?

There wasn't enough evidence, just a slowly uncurling dread that was putting pressure on his insides and making him twitch.

He need to gather proof. Something more concrete....

 

Sherlock scratches at his curls, pacing the room as Kyousuke sits in his swivel chair and watches him work. His hands are folded in front of him, and he feels the need to fill the silence even though he's not even sure if the teen will listen.

“Most of the bodies can't be autopsied any more without a permit. Sorry 'bout that, but the earliest one was almost all the way back in September, and at the time we ruled it just as an accident. The victim, Oliver was hanged, so we just thought.... he had a history of depression.”

 

Sherlock doesn't reply as he reads through the various files. Most of the victims actually seemed to have had a history of mental illnesses, some dating back all the way to childhood. Things like eating disorders, anger management issues, or general anxiety and grief. Many were also at one point in highly professional jobs, however many had lost them and gone onto other things as their vices became worse. Following a slow hunch, Sherlock turns.

 

“What did their wrists look like?”

 

Kyousuke blinks, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

“What?”

 

But he answers anyway, because Sherlock hates repeating himself and rolls his eyes at the automatic response.

 

“Many of them were ex-cutters or ex-drug users. It's the only connection between them. Yoko and I think the one called Ian were even leaders in support groups, trying to encourage people to quit. Different parts of the city of course, so it's unlikely they knew each other.... why? You think the killer is targeting users? Why?”

 

Sherlock runs a hand over the inside of his own elbow, tracing the pin-pricks and bruises that line the pale skin like spots. His eyes are intense and shining with plans being made, laying out before him like a bridge over troubled waters.

Suddenly he spins around, grabbing his coat and shrugging it over his shoulders. Kyousuke begins to stand, nearly knocking over the jar of pens that rest on his desk in the process.

 

“Hey where are you going? Sherlock!”

 

The detective pauses for only an instant, but his smile is tight and filled with a sort of sardonic glee. Holding an irony that Sherlock would never expect to bite him in the butt someday.

_Damn it John....._

 

His answer is confusing the the Chief Officer as he makes his way out the door, coat flaring magnificently behind him in a display of power that he takes joy in.

The meeting was at six thirty tonight, so if he hurried he could make it to last class and tell John what was up.

Maybe even make up for lost time, if he cut a few people off and speeded like a lunatic.

It sounds delightful and _fun._

The best part is if he's right, he can keep John safe and still make him happy too.

 

“To go to rehab I think....”

 

_John...._

 

And Sherlock is gone in a rush of laughter and speed.


	50. To Tear At The Thorns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! please comment or kudo if you like it! or if you notice grammars and stuffs. I loves you aaaaalllls! <3
> 
> :3
> 
> Now onto the angsty Johnlock...

 

 

 Fetching John a cup of tea, Victor acts like the perfect host as he gracefully prowls about the tidy but dark dorm room, crouching down in front of a kitchen cabinet at one point and rifling through it until he found himself a bottle of whiskey. Drinking was illegal on campus, but apparently Moriarty played by different rules. He tips the amber bottle into a glass even as Sebastian glares at him, grinning devilishly as he offers John a sip which he refuses.

 

“Suit yourself then. It's on the house, thought you might want some liquid courage before you hear us out.”

With a flippant wink he downs the rest of the bottle, wincing at the sharp taste and shuddering a little with abject pleasure. John watches him, mouth tense and a thin line of pressure pressing into his ribs. Throbbing from bruises. The table that separates the three of them as they all take varying seats is tacky with some unknown substance as he rests one hand on it, drumming his fingers in thought. He ignores the mild disgust at the unhygienic state that the entire room seemed to be in, things scattered everywhere and things left halfway done in a sort of hode-podge attempt at order. After all, he was used to it with Sherlock's tendency to leave his experiments just lying around. In fact much of this room is akin to the way _**221 B**_ appeared before John had settled in and attempted to instil some order, it sends a kind of nostalgia and a mix of emotions he's not sure how to process so he ignores, instead choosing to slide a glance at Sebastian's tall form.

 

The teen seems to be at home here as he sits on the beaten couch and snatches the bottle from Victor's greedy hands to try and glean a few drops from the bottom of it, so John supposes he's Jim's roomate. Though he doesn't speak, there's an silent power in the way his muscles ripple under his uniform, whispering of cut edges and sharp lines, toned muscles lying just underneath expensive material. The coolness in his eyes John recognizes is of someone who's used to being in the backround and taking orders, but is also used to enforcing them.

An eerie sort of presence, he felt more comfortable giving eye contact to Victor, who sprawled heartlessly on a chair that had seen better days. The springs creak in protest as he leans his head back against the plain white wall, swirling his drink around in one hand, his legs braced apart.

His voice is musing and light, but his words are heavier than lead and dead serious as he sighs breathily.

 

“So. This is how we play the game. You have questions. I have answers and other questions.... Ask away Johnny. I'm an open book. In return, you answer a few of my own queries. Sound fair?”

 

He smiles coyly, edge razor-sharp. And he adds as an afterthought a jab.

“Just don't hate me if you don't like the truth.”

 

John's eyes narrow infinitesimally, and his voice is hard and clipped even as he thinks unwillingly about Harry and the truth that he had come to face over the past weeks. He's getting tired of being underestimated, even though his chest is pounding a little bit faster, a little more painfully against his sternum.

“I think I can handle it, whatever it is.”

 

He doesn't touch the tea, instead letting it turn cold.

His first question is blunt and to the point.

Sharp.

It's the one that's the most obvious too.

“How does Sherlock know Jim?”

 

Victor taps the edge of his glass with one thumbnail absently, the smell of alcohol lingering on him even as he lets another sip burn through his throat and go down between his ribs. Liquid fire, warmth spreading into his fingers and legs. Watching the blonde teen in front of him, he wonders if John realizes just how little he _knows_ about Sherlock if he doesn't even know the answer to that question. His tone is easy and uncaring, but under it lies a length of steel.

 

“Sherlock's known Jim longer than any of us. Childhood friends, since first grade or so. Grew up with him. They taught and protected each other in a lot of ways from what I can tell. Both of them are geniuses after all. Madness calls on one another. Oh, he's also his drug dealer.”

 

John glares at him, teeth gritting in defence even as another part of him is reeling at the information. His fists clench in his lap at the mention that Jim is the one who's been supplying Sherlock with cocaine, not that it's any real surprise. He struggles to keep his voice even, his face turning a slow red with fury he's suppressing. He's more angry at Victor's casual tone about the whole thing, the indifference. It _should_ matter that he was discussing things with John, but the teen treats it as nothing more than a slight annoyance. Like he's a fly on a wall that just needs to be squashed.

 

“Sherlock's _not_ mad. Eccentric yes, but _not_ crazy....”

 

The teen eyes him amusedly, inwardly laughing at the blatant lie that both of them know isn't true. His eyes glint somewhat cruelly as he appraises the teen before him, lingering over his figure and the understated but handsome good-looks that made up John Watson. A curious mix really. Short, but athletic enough to gain second looks. Blonde hair and a nice sort of face, but nothing terribly _interesting._ Under that unassuming flesh though was _something_ that had caught Sherlock's interest, and held it firm too if this whole relationship had been going on since the beginning of the school year. The primal urge to tear apart that skin, to dig into muscle and sinew and bone to reach vital organs and more fills the young man with startling ease. His hands clench a little tighter on the glass, and Victor is careful to keep his expression light.

 

_Easy now. No need for things to get violent so long as he's cooperative. You'll get your chance soon enough, Jim's promised blood either way._

 

His mind purrs at him, and like a wildcat given the sweetest milk it calms. Settles down again so that Victor is able to set down his drink with a sharp tap and let his eyes settle on one place, namely John's face. His fingers drum out a rhythm on his knee that if he were paying attention would sound out to be the beat to one of Sherlock's favourite violin pieces. He had called it _Shadow Boxing,_ and it is the one song he had ever played in front of Victor. The memory of the teenager, looking haggard and strung out and bruised by his own hands and _still_ able to look somehow effortlessly graceful makes a hunger spark low in his abdomen. The craving that all of Sherlock's toys got, the need to have those blue eyes _focused_ on them and _fascinated_ , always just out of reach. There was a time when Victor might have killed for even an admiring glance from those eyes, a glimpse of the soul that was wrapped in iron-hard shells and trapped inside it's own mental faculties.

Impossible for anyone to puncture or to unlock.

Inescapable and as addicting as it was unsatisfying.

Much like cocaine, ironically enough.

Except it seems for this teen before him, that shell had been softened. As much as it annoys him, the smug look John has every time Sherlock's and his relationship is mentioned, it fascinates Victor equally.

 

“My turn then.... Exactly.... _what_ is your relationship with Sherlock? Lover? Friend? Something in between?”

 

John feels heat light up his cheeks as the curly-haired teen grins in an oily sort of fashion, leaning closer because he senses his hesitation.

“Has he even told you that he loves you?”

 

The microscopic wince along the teen's shoulder blades is all Victor needs for confirmation that he's hit a sore spot. Encouraged, he pushes deeper, almost visualizing his fingernails biting through skin and tissue, layer by layer until there was nothing left of this quiet and loyal boy.

 

“Of course he hasn't has he? He's Sherlock Holmes after all, has no _time_ for little more than a one-night stand?”

 

His charming face lights up in utter delight as he sees more, though he's nowhere as good at deducing as Jim or Sherlock himself. Victor sees only base instincts, emotions that rest just under the surface. Though he can't tell if a man has had a smoke that day or if he's in an affair with his gay lover, he's _good_ at sensing feelings. And John is open like a book in the direct gaze he gives him. His voice is a cooing whisper.

 

“But you love him. Enough that it _scares_ you that he hasn't told you everything. This wasn't entirely a selfish quest... you're _genuinely_ worried over a ticking time-bomb.”

 

Then impulsively, because John's feeling cornered and foolish and just a little bit discomfited by subjecting himself to such a knowing look of pity, he lifts his chin and retorts point blank.

 

“Maybe I am. But that's enough for me, to love him. Even if he doesn't feel the same way. It's better than wanting to _own_ him, than to want to take a part of himself away with feelings he doesn't feel. Because I look into Jim's eyes and that's all I see. _The need to own._ ”

 

For a long, long moment Victor looks at him, blinking in surprise at such profound words coming from somebody so ordinary. Yet he was able to understand that nobody in Jim's group really sought love. They sought power and command and ownership of things. Victor was an agressive type. Sebastian passive. Irene when she had been part of the ring had been a Dominant. All of them though looked for the same thing.

Their purpose and place in people's lives. They craved knowing it like they craved achieving that place, surpassing it by stepping on all the competition beneath them. Crushing them and paying no heed to cost or pain of others.

It was a borderline Sherlockian deduction. He goes to take another sip of his drink, only to find that the glass had been emptied. Sebastian beside him shifts, and he notices the darker tint the man's eyes have taken on.

Jealousy.

Something common in the world of Jim. Ugly emotions, all tangled together in black thorny knots and wrapping about your chest until you couldn't breathe. This John has been trying to sever those thorns from Sherlock's heart, has been trying to mend the bleeding and the cuts that many of his 'clients' and 'toys' spent long and hard hours creating. He was stitching together by hand every signature, every mark, and eventually if this kept on, Sherlock wouldn't have to remember. For one brief moment Victor feels a feather-light brush of real fear of the young man as he stares at that stoic face.

Not because John is threatening him physically, as there would be no way he'd be able to get across the table fast enough before Sebastian would have his hands on him.

He feels fear because he knows John _fixes_ things, and if he _fixed_ Sherlock, then he and Jim would have no connection to Sherlock.

The puzzles, the adventure..... it would end.

The satisfying power that came in turning someone into a machine that could probably be a God if he chose would be lost for them, the only worthy adversary to Jim's mind would become.....

 

Human.

 

When John asks his next question, Victor knows he must find a way. Some way to drive a wedge in Watson's loyalty if they wanted him to hesitate.

To doubt in Holmes.

To doubt in that unshakable figure.

 

“What. Is. Sherlock's. Relationship. With. You?”

 

His tone is emotionless, but it holds a gravity. This is the question both of them knows is the mark of tension in John's shoulders, it's what makes his jaw clench. In there, Victor finds a way to tarnish that figure, to blur it and hopefully send John into his own version of hell with confusing thoughts and doubts.

Possibly even tear the palpable bond with Sherlock that seems to make up his core, his heart beyond all the pumping, hot and blood-slick organs that writhe inside a shell of skin and bone.

 

His voice is sure, and Victor's smile is wide enough to make his entire face gleam with contrite. He says it casually, but from the way John's eyes darken and from the way his breath hitches, his missile hits it's target with deadly accuracy.

 

“Well, where would you like me to start? The bit where he became Jim's whore for all of his clients in an alley or the bit where Sherlock actually started to come _looking_ for sex so he could buy his fix?”

 

*****

Sometimes, John thinks it would've been a kinder fate if he had just continued living in his tree. He considers this as he walks alone in the snow, the cold ice digging into his ankles since his boots are badly tied. Victor waves at him jauntily like they're old friends, the mocking expression never fading from his face. He knows that the figure that walks in a sort of hunched way down the snowy paths would probably have a few choice words for the Detective. Better yet he would just disappear, and Sherlock would go back to his drug habits and the little dark world would start spinning again in sardonic bliss.

John Watson was simply to bright to enter this plane of shadows and crime anyway. He can convince himself he's doing the teen a favour this way in the long run. Sherlock would've only destroyed him, as he had destroyed a part of Victor and even a part of Jim. Moriarty's favourite words had to do most often with burning, but often he wasn't the cause for fire.

Really, the lightest of touches from those delicate hands or the slightest note from their violin as they rosined up a bow could scorch hotter than anyone else's methods.

 

A living flame was simply too dangerous to play with, unless you were already ashes yourself. Sebastian stands beside him like a silent statue, and absently Victor turns to look at his hulking frame.

The question comes unbidden from his lips, but he doesn't really expect much answer. It's not even really a sensible query, more like a discordant note of longing. There was a time when he didn't want to be violent. There was a time when he didn't have dreams....

There was a time when Victor can ever remember being a child, smiling at things and reaching for the love of a Mother that would later put a bullet in her brain, shattering his warm summer days and childlike innocence. Leaving it raped and burning inside a building with no light.

 

“Sometimes I wonder.... do you think if we hadn't..... If something had just gone differently.... Could people like us ever be normal?”

 

Sebastian doesn't answer, but he knows what he would say. He turns away and shuts the door behind him, Locking the likes of Victor out of his room with a turn of his key. His blonde hair ruffles as he runs a strong hand through it.

_No._

_I don't think so._

_Sometimes villains just have to be villains. Some people are just born already given to the darkness._

 

Maybe not everyone. Maybe Victor would have had a chance. But certainly not for the likes of Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty.

 

Harry finds John in her dorm when she finally returns to it, her door hanging wide open and her little brother staring guiltily at the pins he had used to pick the lock. (It was a trick he learned while on a case with- _stop_ )

He immediately apologizes, both to her and her flatmate (a sweet, motherly kind of Asian girl named Jing) but Harry takes one look at his haunted face and makes him stop. Wordlessly, she helps him to her room and just lets him sit down on her bed. He doesn't tell her what happened, but she can deduce from the bruises on his ribs and the cold kicked puppy expression in his eyes that it was a bit not good. He lies on her bed and stares at the ceiling mostly, toying with a slinky in his hands that was on her bedside. The coils spire and unspire between his fingers, and as the evening wears on she briefly considers calling Sherlock. However when she stands to reach for the phone John's hand shoots out and touches her shoulder, pleading silently.

 

_Just don't._

 

Instead she sits back down, letting him have the bed and seating herself sprawled on the hardwood floor. She absently runs a hand over his head to search for fever or other signs of illness, but that's more from her childhood days. John used to never willingly lie down unless he was deadly sick, and seeing him so grey and passive now was unnerving. The need to help her baby brother is at once infuriating and comforting, as a part of Harry feels happy he still comes to her in times of need. She waits with him and lets him think by himself until she has to get up and leave reluctantly for her first therapy session. Mycroft's hired someone to drive her, so she can't justify staying and avoiding the meeting at all costs as she would have liked. John's first session is tomorrow, and though he's unresponsive as she reminds him gently of this, she knows he's not looking forward to it either. She shrugs on a jean jacket and a pair of dark pants, choosing to keep her uniform blouse on underneath because of time. Briefly she asks Jing not to tell anyone that her brother has fallen asleep in the girls' dorm, and she agrees and promises to keep her lips shut. Harry smiles at her appreciatively even as she ties her hair back into a messy ponytail.

She was truly a sweet girl.

The elder Watson makes a mental note to warn her later on that she might want to invest in earplugs if she didn't want to be woken by her night terrors.

 

Sherlock comes home to an empty dorm, devoid of life. He frowns, at first worrying, but Mycroft assures him via text that John has just decided to stay with Harry tonight.

Odd.

A part of him is tempted to go looking for him, but the darkly-curled teen decides against it. John would most likely come back when he was ready, and until then he could probably just stay up working on the case while waiting for him. The place seems slightly larger without the mothering hen voice that Sherlock has become accustomed to nattering in his ear, but he sets to work diligently. He takes each file of the victims, reading them over again and analyzing any possible angle. Like adjusting a lens, he turns each possibility over in his mind until he becomes frustrated and _bored_ from going over the same facts again.

 

At midnight he checks his watch, looking up from the book he's going over on Crime Scenes.

No John.

Fine.

That was.... fine. He would maybe get a snack then, even though he didn't need food.

Perhaps some tea....

or those hobnobs that John liked so much. The sugary ones with strawberry jam on them....

Sitting up, he goes to rifle through the cupboards.

 

Three in the morning.

Unusual.

Maybe he chose to just sleep there?

Unfortunate Sherlock supposed, but nothing he could fix.

He stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the little whining part in him that demanded he go out and find John, leaning over his microscope and adjusting the parameters to better focus on his test subject. A piece of one of the victim's teeth that he had managed to acquire.

 

Six.

Sherlock finally lies down, irritable and feeling lonely.

He falls asleep worrying over the empty bedside across from him, not liking the way the room felt any more. The emptiness preyed on his mind and made it buzz and snarl, curling into itself like a hive attacking it's creator. When he sleeps, it's with vivid dreams that quickly dissolve into nonsensical nightmares.

Laughing faces.

Fingers gripping his hair and pulling, drawing blood and scratching.

John.

John with wide eyes holding a gun.

Having to shoot John for some reason.

John falling down, bleeding from his chest and coughing up iron liquid while Sherlock can do nothing but watch the life drain away from him.

 

It is not a good night.

Not for either of them as they lie awake, prey to their own doubts and nightmarish fears.


	51. Blind Emotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> harry at therapy..... :3  
> it rhymes!
> 
> and rape references, I really shouldn't have to warn you by now.... but yeah XD
> 
> Fluff as well.

 

 

When therapy and in Sherlock's case, rehab had been discussed between the three of them, John had originally voted for everyone going together. His logic had been that way, no one could back out of their promises. At first it had seemed like a good idea, except for the fact that Sherlock hated the suggestion from it's first breath of life. Of course he had done his damnedest at the time to ensure that he had perfectly logical reasons why each person should go alone, but neither Watson had been even remotely fooled by his bluster. The truth Harry privately suspected was that he was hoping to keep John away from him during his recovery because he expected occasional relapses, which was a logical step in it itself. Her little brother wouldn't ever admit it, but the few times he had seen Sherlock strung out had been extremely..... stressful for him to say the least.

 

Now she finds herself thankful for the solidarity of the back seat of the black car that Mycroft had directed for her. There's a certain amount of silence that allows her to gather her thoughts together during the drive as she taps her fingers on one knee, she is allowed to figure out how she feels about the whole situation. She lets a hand rest on her abdomen, lifting up the hem of her shirt and stroking lightly the surface of her skin with one finger. It tickles, sends a wave of rippling flesh over her abdomen. She's not sure whether it's just an instinctive reaction from her body, or the tiny creature inside her responding.

A mass of cells, slowly growing into limbs and hands and feet.

 

Warmth.

Child?

Person?

Familiar emotions, yet alien for her. It's more like a memory, a glimpse of her Mother's face sometimes showing the same expression she wears now. Seeing it reflected in the tap of their kitchen as she scrubbed the dishes, pregnant for a third time with an infant that could possibly kill her.

The third time had been a curse instead of a charm in the end. Robin had ended his own Mother's life in the end, making her too frail to go on.

That kind of fear fills Harry.

Could she survive this? Did she really think that if she did she could care for a living breathing _life?_

What were the complications?

The fact that the child was technically a result of incest made her stomach lurch, and she clutched at her head and forced herself to breathe deeply.

It wouldn't....

would it have complications because of that?

 

The same meaningless questions with little to answers fill her and swarm her brain like angry bees, leaving her feeling heavy and useless and lost.

Did she really want to go through with this? If not she didn't have much longer to get an abortion. Her pregnancy was risky enough that she knew if she waited past two months she'd be safer actually going through the birthing process.

Not to mention there was the whole ethical issue to face.

 

She didn't want to be responsible for murder of any kind, and try as she might Harry cannot simply look down at her abdomen and picture a bunch of useless cells. She is aware that a part of that stems from her own instincts to protect children in general because of her own childhood, but there's more to it than just that. It's like the possibility of never _knowing_ if she and this baby could survive and live happy lives would haunt her, because there was that chance.

However slim it was.

 

That's what it came down to every time it seemed. Just how far Harry could be pushed until she broke or bent herself into an impossible knot. Looking out the tinted glass at the blurring shapes of road and other cars, she wonders to herself just how other people could live their lives so.... normally.

 

How did anyone in their lifetime manage to avoid all things _complicated_?

Why was it that people longed for something to alleviate the stress from boring events when the alternative was to constantly worry and pace and wake from sleepless nightmares?

Shouldn't there be some kind of happy medium, a limit that each person had?

Shouldn't there be a minimum requirement?

 

It seemed like the kind of law only someone like Mycroft could enforce, to which Harry smirks at the thought. She supposed never having a dull moment in her life was in part thanks to coming under the protection of the Holmses. A price to pay if you will for the amount of beauty she has witnessed over Christmas. She's seen what it is to be a true genius, read about how this genius fell apart, and how someone simple but not so simple put him back together piece by piece. She had learned in part the art that can come in acting, by watching Lestrade and Mycroft seem so unrelated to one another yet when alone become infinitely attached and interwoven. She had witnessed an old woman scold a fully grown man into submission with minimal effort, and in the next second she had listened from her library chair to the sound of the same man become capable of holding John down and stopping him from hurting himself as he thrashed from nightmares he couldn't escape.

 

Perhaps the most beautiful thing of all, she had seen herself become part of a family. Had gotten to watch John _enjoy_ Christmas for the first time in well..... ever.

 

There was a time when Harry didn't think she'd ever see that.

Absently, she pulls at her sleeves until her scars shine bare-faced at her. Elevated and light pink, healing along nicely. They would never fully disappear, that much was true, but she could see them fading if she was able to be strong. If she was able to bring herself to get a few hours of _sleep_ where she didn't wake up trying to muffle her screams.

So she wouldn't be so inclined to just.... fade away.

Or drown herself in a pint of cheap liquor. So far she had managed to stop her cravings for fear over the kid, but already her hands were shaking in her lap from withdrawal, and she thirsted for something that was most definitely not water. She stills her trembling fingers with some effort, closing her eyes in concentration.

Well, that was what therapy was supposed to be for?

Right?

 

Bloody wonderful.

 

Like a marionette being pulled along by invisible strings, she steps outside as the car pulls up at the curb. The winter air is cool, but already it holds a barely-there promise of warmth in the months ahead. It's less bitter than usual, and even though snow falls about her Harry finds herself shivering not quite as hard.

Right, chin up then.

Shoulders stiff.

Might as well at least give the _appearance_ of being strong.

 

The driver nodded at her before driving away, a nondescript government official dressed in a pigeon-grey suit with no discerning features or expression. A silent promise to return for her at the end of the meeting. To make sure she didn't run off anywhere, though it wasn't like Harry had anywhere to run _to._

Looking up, she reads the neighbourhood and takes it to be a moderately well off area, not too rich and not too run down. The therapist she's going to see, a Mrs. Markley was apparently experienced in dealing with rape victims, but also dealt with many other kinds of trauma. It seemed she specialised or 'had a heart for' victims of crimes. She is one of many workers in the towering grey building that rests between a coffee shop and a pharmaceutical. The dark haired girl has to crane her neck to see all the way to the top, and when she does she sees the sign in it's rectangle outline and professional silver lettering.

 

_Mothly's Therapy and General wellness centre. Treating patients since 1964._

 

 

A bland sort of place, but sterile-looking and organized.

Harry's jaw locks in stubbornness, forcing herself to take a step forward.

She didn't have to tell anyone anything, she was just here to make John happy. If she wanted to and if her therapist was an ass she could tell her to piss off and be done with this.

Yes, a good plan.

 

After all, a little evil can go a long, long way.

 

She tries not to grin to evilly as she steps inside, tossing her dark curls over one shoulder in renewed confidence.

 

*****

As it turns out, Markeley prefers to be called Hannah, and she's about as far away from bland and uninteresting as a person could professionally be. As Harry steps into her office shyly after waiting in a grey and green waiting room on the third floor with typical motivation posters that really just demotivated her, she is momentarily blinded by the rich colour of the walls. A blinding, friendly lime green with blue and white stencil sketches of birds and unfurling flora. For a moment, she is stunned as her eyes take in what look to be like hand-sketched sunflowers painting over the four walls, reaching for curling vines that turn into brightly coloured insects and animals and running free before turning into ethereal blue wisps of smoke. It's strange, to see something so unreal and yet so alive, and for a moment Harry just gapes, eyes wide at the artistry. It takes her a few moments to even acknowledge that there's a solid oak desk in the center of the room, or that seated in the swivel chair is a diminutive woman that's smiling in a knowing sort of way from behind her glasses.

Harry jumps at her voice, which is deeper and fuller than she would have expected from someone so small. Shorter than her. When Hannah stands and introduces herself, she makes up her stature for presence. She stands, walking around the desk so she rests against it and her pencil line skirt smooths over her caramel-toned legs. She wears light clothing, starkly contrasting with the deep colours that make up her face, dark brown eyes alighting with something far too amused and dancing for a person in such a grim line of work. Her dark, straight locks are held back by a brightly coloured flower pin, trailing down her back in a cascading wave, and surprisingly, she makes no move to shake Harry's hand.

Like she's aware of Harry's hesitation of touch.

 

“Welcome to my office. You're Harriet Watson right? Or do you prefer to go by another name?”

 

Harry makes no move except to close the door behind her, unsure of where she should sit or go. Her fists clench a little and unclench uncertainly, not sure if this is a room for little kids or if the woman before her just had a strange sense of humour. If so she wasn't sure what the joke was, but she didn't find if particularly funny.

Just strange.

 

Folding her arms subconsciously over her chest, she affirms the nickname.

“Harry please. Just Harry, Harriet was my aunt....”

 

A stubborn, bitter old root that bought every lie their Father had half-heartedly put together to make them appear like one big happy family. Truly a moron.

She had died when Harry had been thirteen. She really could have cared less because she was of no use to them.

Plus she used to get angry when she caught John allowing his older sister to play soldier with him, her traditional morals screaming 'bare-foot in the kitchen' as she forced the little girl into dresses and bows and God knows what other infernal lacy devices.

Her visits had usually ended up in screaming matches, to make a long story short.

 

Hannah hums in a pleasant sort of way, tapping her fingers energetically against her desk's edge. Her deep brown eyes alight from the sun that streams through the open window, making them turn to a sort of liquid amber that's fiery and intense. The young woman gets the uncomfortable feeling she sometimes feels when Sherlock analyzes her, like this woman is sweeping over her figure and creating a story in her head of Harry's life. However unlike Sherlock she doesn't voice her words, something that is interesting but welcomed.

Harry doesn't need a recap of her history.

She just wants to move forward into the present.

A part of her wonders if Mrs. Markeley is somehow related to the Holmes' family, however it's unlikely since her heritage is very obviously Indian, or possibly Jamaican. She holds herself in the same kind of way, aloof and yet too close to everything.

Like an inquisitive cat.

Or maybe in her case an inquisitive bird, fluttering about and leaving feathers behind in her haste.

 

Clearing her throat, Hannah gestures to a couple of bean-bag chairs and a warm blue sofa with one hand. Her smile is determined but gentle.

 

“Care to take a seat?”

 

After a moment, Harry shrugs and steps forward, choosing the deep black bean-bag. It's soft and leans just under the window, letting light cast her shadow long and quivering on the grey carpet floor. Hannah chooses the other bean-bag, maintaining the same eye-level that she hasn't broken since setting her gaze upon her new patient. The table that's beside them is low just for such seating arrangements, and takes a teapot from it and two cups and pours herself steaming-hot chamomile from the pot and into the ivory glass. It has a painted dragon on it, rearing up and snarling with jade-green eyes, and Harry takes her own to discover a similar dragon on hers wrapped about the handle possessively. It's ruby-red scales glint like they're alive as she takes a sip and almost forgets to not smile.

It's delicious.

 

Apparently the need for coasters is unnecessary, as Hannah makes no move to use one. Instead she sets her drink down on the carpet, folding her legs into a pretzel and leaning forward so her chin cups her hand and a small smile brightens her face. The aroma of the tea swirls about them, enveloping Harry in an odd mix of warmth and safety. Some of her tension leaves her shoulders unwillingly, peering almost shyly through her lashes at the older woman.

The silence is not uncomfortable, in fact it's pleasant and relieving, but she knows it has to end.

And somehow, Harry is aware that Hannah is giving her the reigns.

Letting this meeting turn out where she wants it to.

 

No therapist has ever given her that freedom before.

Most adults in _general_ didn't.

 

Her first words are a sarcastic bite, despite herself.

“Do all of Mycroft's therapists seem so..... Feng shuei-like?”

 

Hannah's laugh is warm and rich, like honey falling through a strainer. Her eyes crinkle at the edges when she smiles, and it's a very natural and Motherly sort of expression.

“Depends. Ask him that, and he'll deny it. However, he _does_ have a weakness for Indian desserts. His brother's the same, though he makes a great fuss over eating them in the first place.”

 

Harry grins, suddenly excited at the prospects of learning some new bits of blackmail or funny baby stories. She finds herself leaning in closer, cupping the tea in both hands between her legs. She's careful not to push too hard because she doesn't want to give the impression she's easy to manipulate into liking other people. She's not.

She's just very, _very_ interested in screwing with Sherlock and Mycroft's sanity.

 

“You've known them for a while?”

 

“Longer than either of them would like to admit. I've worked with them both extensively over the years.” She says smoothly.

 

Briefly Harry wonders why Mycroft would need any kind of therapy. Sherlock was one thing, he was often just on the brink of sanity, a loose cannon begging to shoot off into the sky in an impressive display of fireworks and heat and smoke. But it comes as a surprise to her to know that the more silent Holmes, the one who always seems calm and controlled in all situations would need anyone to talk to. She supposes in her head that even men made of ice had to melt occasionally, take a break from being suits of armour and just be human.

 

Connecting Mycroft to the rest of humanity is as unsettling as it is amusing.

 

“So.... what's with this office? You work with kids a lot?”

 

She gestures to the animals painting the walls, weaving themselves intricately with the swirling plant life that climbs upwards and downwards and sideways. It's beautiful to be sure, but not typical of a therapists' office. Hannah's hands fold into a tent-like position, her manicured nails an interesting shade of azure that fades into orange and reminds her of a sunrise.

 

“Sometimes. But it's not the reason it's like this. I actually _own_ this office, so they let me have my way. I find sometimes with my clients.... they need a sense of familiarity or euphoria to help them relax enough to discuss with me their issues.”

 

She chooses her words carefully and professionally, and there's no doubt in Harry's mind that the woman before her is capable in her field. She is charming without being overwhelming, and she can be all business without being cold.

Approachable was a good word.

Kind could be another.

 

Hannah Markely makes no move to touch her, but Harry feels the caress of her words like a soothing hand on her shoulder.

“I would like you to feel _safe_ here Harry. This room in itself is like a physical Mind-Palace, as Sherlock would call it. It's a place to store things, things you don't have to carry with you all the time. Eventually we can progress, make it so you can carry your own place inside you where you can store things, or delete them on whim. But until you reach that point, do not be afraid to place every memory, every thought and every feeling into this room. Saturate it with your presence. You can even paint a part of the wall if you'd like, pick an animal to paint. It's how I taught Mycroft and Sherlock to adapt somewhat, and I can safely say without it they wouldn't have made it as far as they have. This is a place to feel content, and to feel _safe_ to exist and be yourself, whatever that may be.”

 

She gestures about with her hands in a splayed motion, and Harry sees what she has missed before about the room with a tightening throat. Within the paintings are signatures, both clumsy and adult alike, signing their mark on the room. In one corner is a childlike handprint instead of a name, the fingers small enough to have come from someone barely older than toddler age. Beside it is a messy squiggle she had at first assumed was some kind of cave drawing. Now upon closer inspection it was just a badly painted cat.

 

Feeling intense heat rush to her chest, she's not sure where to look. Everywhere she glances she can see a story, words scrawled in unfamiliar hands and yet all telling the same story. People who had suffered, people who wanted a purpose and had found it in this room, marking themselves a place in it's walls. How many layers deep was this elaborate painting? How many years had Hannah been working as a therapist? If she scratched back the paint, would she reveal another level of artwork? Another mirage of a stranger's tale, whispering to her a sliver of their soul?

Could she bare her own soul to something like that?

Make a mark for everyone to see?

 

She nearly knocks over her tea as she stands, stumbling over to one wall awkwardly. She refuses to look at Hannah as she breathes deeply, resting her palm over the cartoon cat. Her fingers splayed, she covers the handprint too, wrapping it in her own. Her eyes stare blankly at the wall for what seems like an eternity, the panic in her chest unreasonable as it is demanding. It begs for her to leave, because she doesn't want to be _here_ , lost inside a world of other people's stories.

She doesn't even want her _own_ sad tale.

 

As if reading her thoughts, Hannah's voice is comforting.

Non-judgemental and soft.

“It's been about an hour. You can spend the next half outside at the café if you would like. I enjoyed this session, but we move at your pace. If you don't want to continue, then we won't.”

 

Wordlessly, Harry slides her hand down the wall, touching her forehead to it briefly and letting memories wash over her.

Shudder through her figure.

 

His lips forced upon her.

The white and red pain that makes her want to sob and tremble and curl into a little ball.

The darkness of her bedroom and how sometimes when she wakes up she forgets all that's happened and still thinks she's in that house, still trapped by his stinking breath and smile.

 

She marches towards the door without a word of goodbye, fury building in her.

She did not want to reflect on this, did _not_ want to store it away.

She wanted it _gone._

Except thoughts don't work like that, and have a visceral way of coming to the forefront of one's mind when you least expect them to. Harry feels anger at herself, and at Hannah for triggering her into this state of panic.

She doesn't bother to say goodbye as the door slams closed, but her therapist does. Her rich voice is tinged with a little bit of sadness, but a little bit of hope as well as she bends over and sees that the painting Harry stopped at was once painted by a very young Sherlock Holmes.

The coincidence of it all is like a breath of amusement, and she thinks back to when she had been just starting out, hired by a mysterious woman with two small children in tow.

She remembers those blue-green eyes looking up at her, haggard and at once brilliant as the sun itself. Far too brilliant to belong in such a soft and rounded face.

He hadn't even been able to write his name, though Mycroft's painting lies beside him with a small _**M.H**_ scrawled beside it.

 

His is an owl, perched on a branch and looking thoughtfully onto the cat with mild irritation. The boy even then had actually been quite the fair artist, though his younger brother if she recalled correctly was still crappy at even the faintest of sketches.

Hannah's smile is wide as she looks about the room, seeing every patient in her mind, cataloguing every name and face she's ever known in her career.

Wildcats, skittish deer, flying birds and colourful butterflies and insects.

All people, all stories that she kept stored away in her head.

In some ways, she was the harbour of all the Mind-Palaces, of all the Thinking-Rooms and of all the Knowledge-Worlds. All different titles, but all the same in the end.

Her own was a Wonder-Library, and it greeted her as she retreated into it and carefully added Harriet Watson into her list, making sure to connect it to the Holmes' section of her library, and also to the rape victim unit.

The result is a stored and centred piece of information, locked away for use later on.

She doesn't say goodbye because she knows she will see the girl again.

Something in that strong face that had looked at her with clear grey eyes seemed to scream it.

 

“See you soon..... Harry. Sorry that I had to push you.”

 

*****

 

Harry takes a long time in the bathroom, forcing herself into some semblance of calm as she scrubs at her face with cold water to rid herself of the flashbacks. Her dark curls drip as she braces herself against the sink with both arms, face looking sallow and her eyes too dark under the fluorescent lights. Her breaths come in ragged gasps, and with her sleeves rolled up to keep them dry her scars are like bare-faced battle wounds. They glint roughly, and she has the sudden urge to pick. To pry at them until they bleed again.

She stops herself by instead wrenching the sleeves back into place, buttoning the cuffs firmly.

Harry doesn't look at the mirror again as she collects herself and finds money in her wallet, probably a gift from Mycroft.

However as she leaves to buy herself a coffee, she can feel her own eyes staring from that glass. Accusing her of being weak and stupid and useless.

 

The drink is hot.

Burning the roof of her mouth brings some of the simmering rage inside her down to a manageable amount, and Harry revels in the pain even as she winces. The coffee is overly sweet and doesn't have a bite to it because it's cheap stuff, but it's better than nothing and wakes her up a little. Makes her aware of her surroundings.

She's on the first floor, as far from that office as she can get.

 

Watching the little cafeteria scene in front of her, Harry notices how many of the people that mill about are in as crappy shape as she feels. The air tastes decidedly medical, and she sees a number of people taking heavy psych pills and popping them in broad daylight even while drinking their lattes. There are children with nasty scars up their arms and legs, wandering about and smiling even while holding their parent's or guardian's hand. In some cases these kids are crying, but when they are it's often dealt with swiftly by a comforting kiss or hug. There are soldiers with shaking hands that lean in their seats as if they were still at war, and drug addicts that seem to have gone through the ringer a few times. However all of them seem to manage a kind of peace, a sense of stability as they converse with one another softly.

It's a dull sort of droning, but their conversations all seem pleasant and relaxed. Most of the people seem.... well....

 

_Happy._

 

In fact, if Harry had seen a scene like this outside in the city, she might have been just a little bit creeped out. In a place like this though, a veritable twilight zone that was confusing and alarming to begin with, it makes sense. Everyone is leaning on each other, because there's not a single person in this room who isn't broken on some level.

Isn't tampered with or scarred.

 

Before she realizes it, Harry is looking tentatively for a place to sit.

 

Biting her lip, she soon sees her only option is sitting beside a stranger.

Not good, at least not usually.

Usually Harry would already be running though, so she assumes that regular rules don't apply in this building for her.

That her body has decided her impulses could wait for reasoning and logic for a change.

She's not sure how she feels about that, but she ignores her apprehension and walks gingerly forward tucking a lock of dark hair behind one ear.

 

She didn't notice that the young man before her has a white cane until she very nearly trips over it, surprisingly strong hands steadying her lightly and a warm breath laughing gently by her ear.

 

“ _Careful_ , don't want that coffee spilling all over you, that uniform feels expensive.”

 

Catching her breath, Harry realizes that her feet are being steadied by a teen probably around her age. His strawberry blonde hair is short and sticks up haphazardly around his firm but skinny face, and he smiles at her even as his eyes are obscured by dark lenses.

He is also totally blind, and yet has managed to catch her and right her back to standing. She finds herself making hasty apologies, about to slink off and be on her way. Her face turns red in mortification, and she realizes distractedly she's babbling even as she hastens to right the young man's cane.

 

“I'm sorry, I had no idea. I- I was just looking for a place to sit and-”

 

He cuts her off however with a carefree smile, shrugging away her apologies with a wave of one hand. He grips his own coffee in the other and spins it in place, voice comforting and ending the girl's stress. Putting it to rest with words that are one part relaxed and one part amused. When he speaks, he has a slightly scottish lilt to his words

 

“It's okay. I was once new here too. Name's Sean. Care to sit for a bit?”

 

He gestures to the other side of the table with accuracy.

Just like that, with no hesitation at all.

 

He doesn't hold out a hand to shake, but the warmth in his tone makes Harry less stressed than she was a minute ago. Something about this young man intrigues her, partly because though he twirls his cane absently and adjust his glasses, his face is cocked towards her unerringly. It's like despite his obvious impairment, he has no trouble seeing everything. Like he is aware of her every facial change and every movement, and is responding accordingly.

Slowly, she sits.

There's a timid smile creeping up her face as she responds a little nervously. The metal seat is cool, but she doesn't notice. She is fascinated, drawn back to the dark glasses with a kind of morbid curiosity that partly stems from gratitude. Hannah had told her she needed to feel _safe_ , but so far nothing had made her feel that way since the night of her Father's attack.

Yet the subtle confidence this man hold before her, despite his disability, makes her feel like maybe she should have felt secure all along.

After all if a young man she barely knew could be so aware and so in control of things around him even without seeing them, Harry should be able to at the very least keep herself from falling flat on her face.

She promises herself this as she settles in, waiting this time for her coffee to cool before taking a sip.

 

“Harry. I'm.... I'm Harry....”

 

His answering smile is like sunlight breaking over clouds. There's a lightness to him that makes this Sean appear almost lighter than air. A subtle freedom that most would deny him if they saw him down the street.

Harry doesn't deny him that confidence, because she can tell right away he doesn't need pity. In fact now she feels foolish for even freaking out as much as she did.

Without thinking, she apologizes again. This time for treating him like an invalid.

 

Sean laughs in surprise, like he's delighted but confused. It's a welcome sound, and it makes Harry for a moment see a glimpse of dimples in one cheek.

 

_God.... can someone be this bright and.... **comforting** to be around at first glance?_

 

“Well that's a first time I've ever been apologized to for treating my handicap like a handicap. Thanks though. People don't always realize blind doesn't mean deaf. I heard you long before you tripped.”

 

Harry flushes darkly, and seeming to sense it he apologizes with a small frown.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to offend- Look you're not _loud_ or anything just-”

 

It's Harry's turn to giggle, and the rush of bubbling air grounds her back to her old sarcastic self.

“Always this articulate towards total strangers?”

 

Sean sips his coffee, an abashed smirk quirking one eyebrow.

 

“So you _do_ say something other than _sorry._ For a moment there I thought we'd be having an apology war. I would win of course, after all I have to apologize all the time.... mostly for 'accidentally' tripping assholes who flirt with girls that aren't interested.”

 

“I would totally beat you at that game.”

Harry replies with confidence.

“I have a younger brother. Excuses and apologies are second nature to an eldest sibling.”

 

"I'm the middle child, I had to deal with _both_ of them making up reasons for why I should be sorry."

 

"I had to watch my brother become addicted to watching sailor moon because I liked it. I think his macho persona is permanently scarred because of me."

 

“......Touché.”

 

They both decide then and there that they irrefutably _enjoy_ talking to one another. Something they both find surprising, but for different reasons. Before Harry realizes, a half hour has passed with them discussing meaningless yet hilarious things, and she looks up to see the suited driver standing at the front door and tapping his watch politely to let her know that time was up.

Sean hears her sigh and turns around, even though he can't exactly see the culprit for her reluctance. His voice is amused but resigned.

“Have to leave?”

 

“My escort is here it seems.” She says with distaste, eyeing her empty coffee mug.

She is surprised to find herself not wanting to leave. Harry's not sure of the emotion welling up in her stomach, but it makes her speak impulsively.

“Hey um, I'll be here every Tuesday.... would you.... like to do this again sometime?”

 

Even though Sean can't exactly look up or glance at her in surprise, it's obvious by his movement it's implied.

“Sure. I mean if you'd like-”

 

“I'd like it a lot.”

 

She says firmly, and even though Harry _wants_ to reach out and touch that hand goodbye she can't and it makes her a little bit sad. She just can't do physical contact, and it maddens her as much as it relieves her that Sean doesn't seem to expect it. Her fingers hover over his for just a second before they draw away, creeping back to her sleeves which she pulls harder down her wrists. A part of her hopes he doesn't hear that discreet swish of fabric, but she is quickly becoming aware that her new and tentative friend doesn't seem to miss much. With precise accuracy he moves his cane this time, preventing her from possible injury or further embarassment with a small grin.

He smiles in her direction and waves and says goodbye as she gets up to leave, and this time, Harry bids farewell as well, a smile she hopes he can somehow see plastered foolishly to her face.


	52. To Fix, To Burn, To Bleed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ummmm smut.  
> Yeah fair warning. :3
> 
> please review, as I'm kind of uncertain about this chapter as it's a bit of a segue into the ral action. the next chapter is the real kick into the grand finale, and this tale is almost at an end. I've enjoyed myself quite a bit, and am excited over sequels and how great a response this story has gotten :)
> 
> Thank you dear readers! I love you lots and just want to hug you all. <3

 

 

Rough, angry sex.

Red and vibrant like a slap across the face, this was the kind of relationship that Sebastian knew better than any other. The kind laced with tension and love bites, scratch marks mixing with touch and taste and leaving him dizzy and as much in control as out of it. He revels in it, crying out hoarsely as his hips buck helplessly against Jim's, hands scrabbling for purchase and leaving angry red marks down his back like ribbons. Sweat drips in his eyes, becoming mixed with hot breath and throaty moans as he bites the flushed collarbone on top of him, electric heat spiking deep down his abdomen from the noise he elicits from Jim as he sucks at the spot, mapping it out with his tongue. His own mark, a calling card even as he gasps at the feeling of being inside, of _knowing_ this man and being here and being able to become part of him in a painful and deliciously agonizing experience.

 

He finds himself moving then, expertly tumbling about so that their positions are reversed and he's twisted Jim around so his arms are pinned over his head and Sebastian's weight pins him to the mattress, a possessive growl uttering from somewhere deep in his chest as he is attacked by wandering hands that trace his hips and grip his buttocks, pulling him in deeper and turning the flame into a roaring inferno that both groan simultaneously from.

The man under him laughs breathlessly at dominance, and part of it is because Jim is really the one who's in control. The illusion of power for Sebastian is just that, a well-played hallucination and nothing more. Jim is the kind of person you want to own and possess, but can't ever hope to.

 

And he knows it, even as he drives Sebastian over edge, biting down on his collarbone hard enough to draw blood, even while raking his nails across his thigh.

“Fuck!”

 

The pain is just enough to set every nerve on him into a screaming frenzy that demands violence as much as pleasure, and he cries out even as Jim's lips crash into his, pulling him under the waves so they cap over his head and leave Seb shaking for air and clutching for something to save him.

His hips jerk forward as if pulled by a string, locking as he throws his head back in a silent shout. Jim watches those green eyes, dilated and blown so utterly in ecstasy. It's a delicious sight, and he's not far behind.

 

The two collapse on top of one another, lined with red marks and gasping in the warm sort of burning pain that comes with their kind of sex and tingles along Sebastian's spine like the pinprick of a needle injecting sweet drugs into his system of endorphins and lust.

For a moment, Jim is no longer Moriarty, the most powerful young man in the world. He isn't a spider, weaving a complex web of lines and plans that all interconnect and interweave into a perfectly executed mission. He is wrecked, lying beside him and struggling to catch his breath even as his arms snake about Sebastian's bare hips, brushing along the wounds that are now bleeding freely. The man winces, but the fingers that so roughly gave the marks are now feather-light. Almost gentle in their administrations as they trace each line, coming away crimson. He cups his cheek, leaving a reddish fingerprint that comes to rest just under those blue-green eyes.

A part of Seb wants to believe that touch has the kind of gentle care in it that most couples would have, that it's a gentler form of Jim's attention, of his focus.

Except Sebastian doesn't like gentle, and neither does Jim.

So it's not a surprise when Jim pulls his chin up roughly for a kiss, teeth biting down on his lower lip.

A silent demand.

Those dark eyes compel him, making it impossible to refuse.

_Again._

_Not enough._

_Again._

_I want to hear you._

_I want to feel your screams under my hands._

_I want you to say my name in fear._

 

Because Jim craves something that can never be satiated, so he has to try and burn that want and need away, keep it locked into the recesses of his mind by having access to base things.

Until only his instincts drive him.

Never stopping until he is little more than a snarling animal, trapped with a roaring tiger. To become a beast so his mind didn't turn into the tearing, fire-breathing dragon that could destroy itself.

 

As for Sebastian, he had no complaints.

After all, this was the closest thing to true feelings he had ever experienced.

More real than any relationship he had before, more vibrant.

Like splashing red blood on a dull grey canvas, it stains him.

He is tainted, but he'd rather be covered in crimson and painted from head to toe than go back to the cold and unyielding grey.

 

They would have continued their bedroom brawl, if the phone hadn't buzzed on the night-stand. Pulling away with a dissatisfied and hungry growl, the teen gripping the phone between his fingers as if to chuck it across the room. Except he catches the name, and the wind up in his arm for a good throw is replaced with care as he lowers the screen into view. The Irishman quirks one eyebrow, and Sebastian sees the hungry sparked replaced with one of excitement and intrigue.

Inwardly he sighs.

 

_Looks like this is done._

 

True to his suspicions, Jim pulls off of him, standing to pace over to the other side of the room and pull on his pants. The good ones, whatever was happening, it must be important then. Seb rolls over and runs a hand through his blonde hair so it sticks up like electrical current runs through it, fingers searching blindly for his gun. As his back is turned Moriarty answers the phone, muttering into it in hushed tones and waiting for beats for the replies. The fact that his stark naked except for his pants doesn't seem to have any affect on his usual charm and venom as he berates the man on the other line even as he cajoles him gently and manipulates him like a puppet with silver words. More than bruises and bitemarks, Jim could skin a man alive even if he wasn't in his physical presence. Leave him bleeding and flayed on the inside, tie him down and leave him to shudder and scream in the fears of his own mind It's something that makes Seb one part aroused and two parts frightened of the man, and he licks his lip in reluctance towards getting out of bed.

After a few moments though, he decides he should probably at least put on pants. Lord knows Jim has rushed him before, and he didn't have the same concerns as Seb did about general appearance. He would force him outside naked if it pleased him, and he had threatened to do it before so it was no great stretch.

 

As he shrugs his jeans over his hips, Jim hangs up the phone and reaches for the top part of his suit. He begins doing up the buttons with nimble fingers that shake with pent up energy, and his grin glints in the darkness like a contagion in the night and shadows of the Dorm room.

 

“It's time Tiger. The game has finally reached it's final act.”

 

At those words, the blonde youth pauses, eyes narrowing slightly.

Jim looks..... well manic.

Sweat glints just at his temple, where his dark ginger-brown locks still look styled instead of mussed despite the sex. There's a raw kind of nerve surrounding him, making him vibrate on the spot. Sebastian realizes in that moment that this game could escalate, and that Jim played to play double or nothing. His jaw clenches silently with the knowledge, and he goes to the closet without a word to get his sniper gun.

In a dance this complicated, he couldn't afford to not be prepared. He had a feeling that if he wasn't someone would die, and he would make sure and do his damnedest to ensure it was Sherlock Holmes if no one else.

Of course he wouldn't fire if Jim didn't order it.

He was boss.

He made the decisions and he would follow. He was the controller of his purpose, and Sebastian would hold even if his life was in danger, if Jim wished it.

However, if the man made the slightest move, any at all towards hurting his boss.....

Then there was no certainty that his life would be spared.

 

Jim sees that look in Sebastian's eyes and smirks, knowing what's going on through his Tiger's head. Always a protector.

Always the one to defend. The unhidden fury in both of their minds.

He promises himself to bring that rage to the surface in their next time alone together. He wants Sebastian to come so undone in his hands, to want to hit him square in the jaw and to want to leave bite marks and scars like Jim had just left on his neck. The purple bruise, a mark of possession.

Jim owned him.

He was _his._

Just like Sherlock had once been _his._

Except Watson had taken him away.

Distracted him with sunlight and joy, with futile _vanilla_ things like happiness and comfort.

The bruise lasts longer than a kiss.

Proof that joy in itself can be severed.

Love can be severed.

 

The two make their way towards the door, Jim's voice a insidious murmur in the shadows.

His eyes burn like the blackest coals, alight with an ember of murderous desire.

“Let's go rip out what's left of Sherlock's heart..... shall we?”

 

 

*****

 

John doesn't come back to _**221 B**_ that night, and doesn't arrive in the morning either. Sherlock wakes irritable and more than a little bit annoyed at the stale taste of sweets and coffee that hangs dull and bitter on his tongue. Over the course of the night he had somehow managed to fall out of bed, the covers tangled about him like a wild nest and his cheek sticking to the hardwood floor with drool because of the awkward angle at which he landed.

He almost wonders why John didn't rouse him when he remembers.

 

_Oh._

_That's right._

_Stupid._

 

Bracing his hands flat on the floor, he rights himself up, checking the clock.

Almost time for classes.

If he wanted to go that is. He wasn't really sure if it was worth it after all. Mycroft was busy with work, desperately so as he almost always was after the holidays, and couldn't be bothered to bully his little brother into going. Even though he had skipped most of yesterday, he couldn't justify rousing himself from the disgruntled lump he felt like, sitting on his bed. It would be so much easier to just sulk, to justify his annoyance by going over the case again, by analyzing everything around him in an attempt to keep his brain from analyzing himself.

His hands tremble a little, and he feels the familiar pang of want thrilling through him.

 

_You could just.... you know...._

 

_**No.** _

 

If he did, John would be furious. He was already miffed as it was, and Sherlock wasn't even entirely certain why. He had an idea yes, but it was small and should have burned out by now. John had to see that he was only trying to keep him out of danger, and even though he knew his lover well enough by now to know he did not enjoy sitting around and twiddling his thumbs, it was the only thing keeping Sherlock relatively sane.

Everything about this case screamed at him danger. Not like the usual danger, because most of the time Sherlock can see where the threat is coming from and can make suitable plans to avoid it or to rush headlong into it, if he's feeling a little bit morbid. This however is rapidly becoming a sort of creeping paranoia, edged between his shoulder blades and poking him at inconvenient times.

 

That does it.

He's going to class, if only to stop the inane nattering in his brain.

Besides, if he finds John he.... _might_ just apologize.

Not beg for him to come back, like the uncomfortable squeeze in his sternum suggests.

But he wouldn't necessarily be above winning his affections back with some physical contact. Or a well-placed pout.

He was beginning to become truly depressed without the short blonde head poking about, telling him off because he's making a mess of the Dorm.

It's only been a day, but the place looks like a war zone. Lingering corpses of his experiments litter the floor, and a few of them are starting to look altogether unpleasant because of lack of refrigeration.

He wrinkles his nose in resignation.

Right.

Clean up the worst of this at least, or forgiveness from John wasn't going to even be on the table.

 

He manages to get it to a state of at least mild order before he heads on out, tousling his curls into messy perfection and shrugging on his uniform, not interested enough in the task to piss off the teachers and wear something else. He's not going to bother with the tie, but a memory flickers behind his closed eyes of the way John's fingers had worked so hard into tying a windsor knot against his clavicle, and before he can stop himself it's woven around his neck gently and tightened to symmetrical perfection.

 

*****

 

John sees Sherlock before Sherlock sees him. When he catches that head of dark curls and the glint of silver in one ear as he jogs up the stairs, the reaction his body takes is instant. Grabbing Summer mid-babble, he pulls her behind the nearest wall, covering her protests with one hand as he ducks away into a breathless crouch. His friend struggles at first, but upon glancing at his face she deduces what's going on and soon falls quiet, green eyes gleaming with curiosity and confusion. Both on them lie pressed against the wall, listening uneasily to the movements of the crowd in the hall. Close to him, she can hear the way the boy's heart thunders in his chest, and wonders to herself just what that idiot has done this time to make John's fists clench so tightly. His face is scrunched into an expression of silent pain, and both of them stiffen as they hear Sherlock's footsteps pass and unbelievably pause at the turn towards their wall. Both hold their breath as they listen to the distinct silence from those footsteps, and Summer thinks the jig is up. She watches as John runs a nervous tongue over his lip, dark blue eyes worried, and she sees something she had before but had discounted until now.

 

Her friend is frightened. This is not the kind of tension from a lover's spat, but honest to goodness fear. Like John is _afraid_ of Sherlock, which is ridiculous. Which means he's more afraid _for_ him, which leads to new questions. What could happen to the Detective if they were to meet? She knew John had spent the night at his sister's, but she had assumed it was because of an argument. Whatever this was, it ran deeper and had the potential to leave some scarring. She frowns to herself at the thought, wondering if this had to do with the bullying John had been facing yesterday and this morning. Twice she had to kick a few idiots off of him that thought it'd be fun to rough the school's new 'fag' up, and he had a split lip that still looked a little bit swollen from a punch one football player had scored before John had all but flung him down the stairs.

No teachers ever seemed to be around when the fighting went on either, something she blamed money and patience on.

It was no secret that John was on scholarship, and chances were the staff were afraid of ticking off a few rich families if they made a big deal of the fighting.

 

After a moment the footsteps ahead of them carry on, walking away and ending their tense silence. The tension releases from her friend's shoulders audibly, a sigh of relief escaping his mouth with a small sort of groan. He rests his head on the back of the wall like all of his strength has left him as Summer crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at him with an arched brow of disapproval.

 

“What's going on? Is this because of some case or something?”

 

Wordlessly, her friend shakes his head dazedly, eyes lost and uncertain. Those blue irises are clouded just a little bit with pain too, and he absently rubs at the bruising at his ribs underneath his uniform.

“I just.... I found out something I shouldn't have... and now every time I see him.... I want to say something, do something but....”

He trails off helplessly, and Summer is able to guess some of his apprehension. Her voice is soothing as she surmises the situation.

 

“You're afraid he's going to be mad that you found out.”

 

Her friend nods, flushing just a little and mumbling his private fears.

“He's already acting... off lately.... and I think right now he just needs to focus on his cases. Not worry what people think of us or-”

 

“That's crap.”

 

He blinks in surprise at Summer's blatant tone, her freckled scowl deepening. Before he can respond she derails him, pushing him forward so he's dragged away from the shadow of the wall. Her hands are small but strong as she pulls him into the light, golden curls reflecting and shimmering with the movement.

 

“How do you _expect_ him to focus on the case when he's obviously worried over you? He won't focus on the case without his partner.”

 

She says this with easy confidence, but John looks at her dubiously. His tone is just a little bit bitter as he shrugs. Summer can tell he hasn't been sleeping, because he's not usually so negative. His tone borders complaint, and she has to suppress a laugh when of all things John begins to _pout_ just like Sherlock would. The reaction is so automatic, she wonders if he even is aware of the action.

 

“He's done it before, gone off somewhere without telling anyone. I never know what he's going to pull, half the time I don't even know if I want to snog him or strangle him! There are days when it's a wonder I don't find him dead under a bus! _Damn_ it I just wish-”

 

“Don't.”

 

Summer says fiercely, cutting John off. He hands are gentle as they rest on his shoulders, ceasing the tremble that crawls up his spine. In the hiding place of the wall she forces her friend's face to look at her, green eyes blazing as she makes sure that he reads every word on her lips.

 

“You. You need to stop. Stop feeling like all of this is somehow _your_ fault. You told me about what happened with Jim and them, and I can tell you it most definitely _is. Not. Your. Fault._ ”

 

Though he hadn't told her exactly what Sherlock's past was made up of, she could guess with decent accuracy if he truly was childhood friends with the school's top drug lord. She reaches up and cups John's cheek, a sisterly action because she can't stand to see her friends in so much turmoil. He leans into her touch, eyes fluttering closed as he forces himself to breathe. His pale lashes shudder against his cheek, and his voice comes out treacherously thick and broken.

“....I'm scared okay? I'm afraid of Jim because he knows things about Sherlock I never will and he's planning something and I can't tell Sherlock because I'm not sure he'll believe me. I'm not sure he'll _forgive_ me either, for hearing Jim and Trevor out....”

 

He looks down at his elfin friend, who refuses to drop her gaze and instead just strokes his cheek until he gets his breathing under control and he stops seeing red staining everything. John can't stop the dream playing over and over in his head, the one he had last night.

 

The one where Jim shot Sherlock square in the chest, and John had to press down on the wound in the snow even while he watched the life drain out of his best friend's eyes, desperately trying to hold in the liquid life that stained everything around him and turned the crystalline flakes to a ragged crimson. In the dream he had drowned in that blood, it's presence hot and sticky and sickening as his lungs filled with it, his hands leaving Sherlock's chest to scrabble at his own throat. His lungs screamed for air even as his heart screamed over the death of the one person that had saved John, and he had woken up not sure if his tears were because of Sherlock's demise in the nightmare or his own.

Or both.

 

Yet that was just a dream, an illusion.

He finds himself becoming a little steadier, and despite his exhaustion energy sings in his muscles. He wants to be near Sherlock again, wants to be able to touch and see him and _taste_ and know he was all right. The longing pulls at him like a physical force, and Summer sees it and smiles.

 

“Trust your instincts John. They're solid. First guide to becoming a soldier, and first rule in love. Irene taught me it.”

 

She winks and blushes just a little, recalling the memory of _how_ her girlfriend had ingrained such message into her. However it seems to make John relax, and a shy smile lights his features.

“....Thanks....”

 

He murmurs sheepishly, and his friend pats his back before they move back into the hall to try and make it to their classes.

 

“Any time farm-boy. Any time.”

 

John vows to return to his Dorm tonight and patch things up with Sherlock. He would be honest with him, and if he was angry and wanted to be alone, he would give him the space he wanted but be comforting where he could. He wasn't mad at him any more for keeping secrets, because a part of him understands.

He knows the kind of shame a bad past can bring, and knows he probably would have kept his own past a secret if he only could have from the Detective. The problem was that it was _impossible_ to keep things from Sherlock, and he felt it sometimes unfair that he could read nothing when his lover only had to glance and see everything that was running across John's mind.

 

They would have to talk about that too he supposed. One where Sherlock wasn't only half listening as he delved over some experiment or gadget. He wondered if every couple had to pry their loved one away from a microscope to get their attention, and then just decides that's the way his Detective is. He can't change him, and he doesn't want to.

John can't image Sherlock being ordinary, or even _trying_ to be. It would be too weird, too sad and too strange to even imagine dulling someone so vivid and alive.

 

_A great loss._

 

And then he smiles sadly, because Sherlock would never view it that way. Too often he had said he was a freak, or a machine, and every time John just wanted to wipe those assumptions away, rub at them like lipstick on a cheekbone and replace those words with praises.

Yes, he promises to make it up to Sherlock as soon as he can.

 

And his promise doesn't waver even though at lunch a group of kids drag him screaming into the boy's bathroom and nearly drown him by dunking his head in the toilet. It doesn't waver when he sits in that stall shivering, his hair soaking wet and his teeth gritted as he looks in the mirror and realizes someone's scribbled _fag_ on his forehead with black sharpie. Instead it strengthens as he does his best to scrub the offensive word away, and turns to steel as he dries himself off as best as he can using paper towels. John Watson is nothing if not a fighter, and his shoulders are able to handle so much more than many people ever give him credit for. 

He catches his sister's eye on his way out to last period, and she notes the damage with a grim nod of her head and a narrowing of her eyes, but doesn't go to help him. She knows that determined flare in her little brother's gaze, and wordlessly commends him for it. Encourages it as it's a welcome relief from the shattered look he had worn this morning. He's begun fighting again, working towards fixing things like he always does. He always gets back on his feet, she knows by now it's better not to pity but to cheer him on in the way she holds her head high and marches to her next class.

The doctor.

The healer.

The soldier.

John.

 


	53. A Fucked Up Fairytail

 

 

As the school day draws to a close, Sherlock is aware that John is potentially getting the crap kicked out of him. It's obvious by the rumours flying around the hallways like tentative wisps of smoke, and he can easily deduce that some of the school's more violent individuals have the certain spring in their step that means they've found a target to hit. It irks him deeply, not because he doesn't think that John can't handle himself, but because he sees hide nor hair of the blonde teen in between all of his classes. It's like he's gone off the map, partly a protective instinct he's sure, but it's too seamlessly done. It's like he's purposefully avoiding Sherlock, and the thought is distressing as it is irritating.

 

He makes a mental note to himself to get Mycroft to attach a tracking advice to the bugger, if he was going to be so stubbornly invisible when they had a fight. If he was this skilled, there's little doubt in Sherlock's mind that the army would be happy to hire his partner when he graduated. He briefly considers using his lighter to become a pyromaniac, since he can't light a cigarette with it any more and it would be a brief reprieve from the dullness of his class. The teacher Mrs. Ark is a moron, barely knows anything about the advanced calculus she's teaching. He all but leaps from his desk in his desperation to get back to his dorm when the bell sounds, banal and abusive to his ears.

Like a symphony Sherlock's heart pounds as he runs.

It plays a steady song of impatience and mixed parts of possessiveness and affection and hesitation.

 

Like stolid drums behind an incandescent melody, the hum of the puzzling case clicking together synapses and sparking lights behind his eyelids. The names of the victim's splaying all over and intertwisting into coils and shapes, anagrams and initials.

He knows he's close, Sherlock can taste it on his tongue even as he ducks out into the melting snow, stalking forward and feeling the cool air permeate his lungs.

 

Perhaps if could get rid of the distraction John was, he could finally click together the final pieces.

So far, he theorized the next attack would be a bomb, judging by the murderer's general style. It would be another riddle, and it would be coming at any time.

 

A few more pieces.

Click.

Click, click, click into place.

 

 

He finds him in the end curled up on his bed like he had never left it, flipping through his copy of _Grey's Anatomy_ and nibbling on a hobknob even while reaching with blind hands for his cup of tea on the shelf beside him. The blanket is wrapped over his shoulders, but a corner of it slips to reveal the collar of his uniform as he looks up upon Sherlock's entry.

 

John had an entire speech laid out, a carefully prepared explanation laid out on his tongue to tell Sherlock, to assure him and comfort him and beg forgiveness for the secrets he now knew that he shouldn't. Yet the words die in his throat when their eyes meet, because he realizes that Sherlock isn't paying him the slightest attention.

Instead he's reading John's entire day, painted in bruises and split lips and fading marker, and the blonde teen sees something spark in the Detective's eyes that can only be accurately called rage as he suddenly rushes forward, grabbing his chin between warm hands and cursing loudly when he sees the nearly imperceptible wince that runs along his features. His fingers are gentle, but they send fire licking along John's chest and across his skin, and it pulls him forward before he can stop himself.

 

It's only been two days, but it's felt like forever since he's been able to touch Sherlock, to feel the broadness of his shoulders and the heat that emanates from him like a beacon. His partner is not usually physically affectionate, but now he pulls John against him like a man dying of thirst drawing water, ducking him under his chin and wrapping his impossibly long limbs about him in an embrace that is one part apologetic and two parts needy. It's shocking, to be so suddenly wanted and so utterly swallowed whole by somebody who most of the time pretends he doesn't need anything. Sherlock acts so utterly independent sometimes, that John had nearly forgotten about the side of him that's yielding and _gentle_ and _warm_. The flip of his cold exterior that only seems to materialize when he's worried or scared, not that he would even realize that's how he's feeling.

His face buried into his shirt collar, he drags a ragged hand up and strokes the top of those dark curls lightly, not pulling but massaging. Meticulously making sure his partner is still in one piece, as he seems to be doing to John. His fingers trail up each purpling mark, rubbing at them like he could erase it with touch alone, pulling his face up so he can rest their foreheads together and he can become lost in John's deep blue eyes. A bright ocean that makes Sherlock's thoughts come to relieving rest and the shaking withdrawal from drugs yield in their sharp biting into his gut.

 

“Hey. It's okay. I'm all right. Shh...”

John chuckles a little despite himself, overwhelmed but selfishly pleased at his partner's administrations. His giggles turn into full-blown laughter as his residual sadness is forgotten, mostly because Sherlock's taken to tickling the back of his neck with his breath.

“S-stop that you git. Jesus I'm t-trying to apologize and you're not making this- _gah-!_ ”

 

He gasps as his partner abruptly pulls away, trying to get a better look at the fading marks along John's ribs by pulling at the buttons of his shirt. Pinning him to the mattress, the Detective is surprised by the hot spike of anger that settles in his gut even as he works the buttons free and reveals the shoe-like marks, his teeth gritting even as John's face turns a slow rosy pink under his scrutiny. He thought he was okay, that it would be fine if people went after John because he knew his partner could handle himself and Sherlock didn't want to upset him further at school, but he has trouble keeping his breathing under control even as the teen looks up at him, face flaming, and he sees the crackling fury under the carefully controlled mask.

 

John to his surprise can feel the way Sherlock's fingers tremble as he leans in, stroking his blonde hair upwards so it fans about his head and sticks up in all directions, looking not unlike rays of sun. He had been the one who originally wanted to apologize, but it's those bowed lips that part first to mutter an emotional and embarrassed plea even as something vulnerable glows in those irises.

“I'm sorry I didn't-

John. It was the case, it distracted me like it was _made_ to be solved...... and. _Fuck_ I'm trying to say-”

 

He breaks off as the blonde teen claps a hand over his mouth, looking up at him solemnly with deep blue eyes. There's a slow kind of fear in John's gaze that Sherlock can't read, and even though he longs to just hold Sherlock and keep him in one place where he can just be near him, he knows that a storm is on the horizon. His voice is quiet and small, but it holds a weight to it that makes both of their hearts heavy.

 

“Sherlock. I need to tell you and I'm sorry if it ruins the moment..... but I know about Jim and Victor. I know what they did to you...... what you _had_ to do....”

 

He watches those dark brows lower slowly, and complete shock registers for a cold instant before it smooths back over into unreadable glass. Instead of pulling away from him like John expects though, he sees something fall into place in Sherlock's brain. Connecting together pieces that were once seemingly unrelated so that his eyes widen into full-blown realization and he brings both of his hands up to rake through his messy curls in both enlightenment and horrible terror.

 

_Click._

_Click, clicklicklclickclick._

_**Oh.** _

 

_**It all makes sense!** _

 

His Mind-Palace opens up before him in all of it's splendour, drinking in the information faster than the speed of light, storing it away and creating new floors and levels and draining the colour from his cheeks only to return it the next moment with renewed fervour.

John knew.

Which meant John had undoubtedly been cornered by Jim, as Harry would not tell him such a thing even if she finished reading the journals.

The guilt and pain is mild compared to the overwhelming need to _solve_ the pieces that are rapidly turning into a jigsaw.

If John was cornered, that meant that Jim knew.

Knew that he was _important._

_**John is in trouble after all.** _

 

_But you just apologized for leaving him, so you can't run away now._

_Protect._

_Keep._

_**My John.** _

_Moriarty can't have him!_

 

The thought is wrought with such savagery that it leaves the teen for a moment utterly dazed. His green eyes glaze a little out of focus as he struggles to calm his heartbeat, which crashes agonizingly against his ribcage and makes him want to vomit.

 

_Can't have him._

_John can't be taken away._

_Not ever._

 

Feeling his entire body go rigid above him, John reaches up one hand tentatively, cupping Sherlock's cheek soothingly and calling him back to reality in an instant. When he looks down at the blonde teen's body again, he sees more that he hadn't before.

 

_Size ten shoe._

_Not an uncommon number, but the imprint is of a rich brand._

_An import all the way from Russia, a little known store._

_I know those shoes._

 

_**Victor.** _

 

_Victor hurt John._

 

And his hands curl into angry fists and the fury is back again, this time flaming a thousand times hotter. The voice in his head turns into a roar of a lion, and Sherlock before he knows what he is doing is pressing his lips against John's, trying to burn the image in his mind of his partner curled up on the floor and being beaten mercilessly.

 

_Stupid._

_I was stupid to leave him alone for so long._

 

And John, good and brave-hearted John seems to realize the message his Detective is trying to convey through the flavour of his lips. His lips part a second later in a deep and wanting moan, and the two fall back all the way onto the bed and for a moment stretched in between time just reassure each other of their presence with fumbling hands and caressing whispers.

 

_I'm here. I'm not hurt too much._

 

_**I won't let them have you. They can't take you from me. Not when they've taken so much away already!** _

 

_I know. I won't leave you. I'm here, shh, I'm okay...._

 

_**John.... I love you.** _

 

Though he doesn't say it out loud because of what little pride he has left, Sherlock's eyes shimmer with the words as he wraps his hands about John's hips. Drawing him closer, sending a needy fire through his heart and his groin and sending similar reactions to the tanned body under him. Claiming, choosing, both of them laying their names down as the other's chosen one. John's hands come to rest on Sherlock's tie, which had loosened considerably since this morning, and a small smile alights his face even as he sees the Detective flush a little darker.

 

“Let's get rid of this stupid thing, shall we?”

 

And a wicked grin hides Sherlock's utter adoration for John and turns it hungry, turns love into a thriving drive that's sharp as an arrow and takes his breath away, spearing him in place. He would have remained a statue forever, if those capable hands didn't throw the tie halfway across the room and pull his torso forward into another dizzying, free-fall of a kiss.

 

Sherlock privately thinks their two bodies, aligned against one another in perfect synchrony, are the best puzzle he's ever had the pleasure of solving.

 

*****

 

_**YOU OWED ME.** _

 

The victims.

Daniel Fairgrew.

Olivia Fairgrew.

Yoko Woods.

Ian Crassbin.

Winter Brown.

Emmet Dorian.

Oliver Grates.

Mimi Dawson.

Errol Laow.

and

Ustace Bearn.

 

The first letters of their names. All coming together at once. Sherlock thinks of it as his sweaty and tired body curls around John's protectively, even as he wraps the blankets about them both to ward off any oncoming chill. It's enough to make his eyes fly open, glowing in the darkness that has surrounded their dorm, the moon shining in the night and casting a pale orb on the hardwood floor that seems to leach all colour from it's presence. His grip tightens around John's shoulders, and his lover wakes muzzily to find his partner wide awake and silently calculating. Eyes bleary, he rubs at his face and places a palm on his bare chest.

 

“Sh'lock?”

 

Both of them freeze as from across the room, the Detective's phone blazes to life. Glowing an eerie green in the dark, it chimes loudly until the darkly curled teen falls out of bed to grab it, cupping it to his ear and not bothering to check the number before answering.

 

“Who is it?”

 

His eyes narrow as a quavering female voice on the other responds, her bell-like tones at once familiar and confusing.

“H-hiya Sh-Sherlock. Long t-time no s-s-see....”

 

His dark brows lower in concentration, the pale curve of his back turning alabaster as he sits in the ring of moonlight. John sits up, worry etching every line of his figure and casting a dark shadow over his face so his eyes gleam with fear.

 

“Irene? What-”

 

“H-have you ever played a g-game and s-someone cheated?”

 

The woman's voice cuts over his, the fear lacing it evident as she can't keep her tone even for long. Sherlock surmises what must be happening, and rushes to give her information even as he turns the silver piercing in his ear viciously.

“Listen to me. I will find you. I will call Mycroft Jim, do you hear me? Leave Irene out of this. I know you have Summer under gunpoint.”

 

At that, John lets out a strangled cry that's part cursing and part pain, getting up swiftly to pull on whatever's available in terms of clothing.

Irene's message carries on though, her voice drifting into the realm of hysterics as Sherlock listens to a sob escape her chest and a muffled voice snarling at her to _get on with it._

 

“Y-you cheated Sh-Sherlock. You s-stopped playing. For th-that there must be c-consequences.”

 

His fingers tighten around the phone, and even though John is cussing blue murder, the man before him stays icy calm. His brain clicks into place the clues from before, and his tone is dead and flat.

 

“It's a bomb. Irene where are you? What do I have to do to stop the bomb from going off?”

 

A pause, and then the girl's voice is whisper-silent. Almost inaudible.

Broken and hopeless.

 

“You have forty-eight hours. With each one the time decreases until the finale. You'll find your clues with your older brother. I do believe this will be..... one _fucked_ up fairytale.....”

 

The sound of the dial-tone is somehow horribly final. It rings in Sherlock's ears and makes his head buzz with it's sound. When he shuts his phone, he can feel John looking at him with wide, terrified eyes.

“What are we going to do?”

 

He croaks, and mentally the darkly-curled teen hopes his voice is coming out as confident as it sounds in his ears. He stands and brushes past John, clambering for his belstaff coat and scarf.

He grabs John's fingers in his own and refuses to let go of them as he pulls him outside into the night air, where only the school's lone figure and the arching of the oak stand tall against the indigo sky. The moon alights his hair, making the edges gleam like tapered silver. He is resolute in the night, a pale guardian of black and purest white in John's eyes.

 

He just hopes Sherlock can't hear how hard his heart pounds as he thinks of the freckled blonde face in his mind.

Her smile and how she was probably crying in fear.

His friend.

Summer.....

His fists clench to his sides in anger and desperate panic hot searing metallically on his lips.

 

“We're going to find Mycroft.”


	54. The King's Dark Bedtime Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of Jim's riddles.  
> Do you know where she is? >:3 
> 
> muahahaha don't eat me XD

 

 

In the end, it had all started with Irene finally feeling like she could go to Mycroft. Or rather, she had found a way to get him information without actually having to speak to him. It was a tricky sort of plan, and she had nearly gotten caught in the meetings she had attended with Jim's crowd even though she hid in the corners and shadows and tried to look frightened and small. It was not a difficult task to do, surrounded by mostly ex-military and half the time having to keep an eye out for wandering eyes and hands. Each time she sat herself down and listened, half and ear cocked for whisperings of her traitorous intent, she grew more and more horrified with just how deep Jim's plans ran into the very soil of London.

 

Jim didn't question her presence, or her sudden compliance with his casual texts and messages. Instead he would look at her sometimes during his speeches in which he had followers captivated, dark eyes glinting darkly like obsidian, and he'd smirk in a telling, knowing way. Each time Irene would have to swallow thickly and force her heart to stop throbbing inside the confinement of her ribcage. She knew that she couldn't keep this up forever, maintain the pretence of a cowed slave even as she slowly crafted her own knife to break the chains that cling to her like a white-hot choke collar. There would be only so many of those glances before she would have to admit to herself that Jim knew her game, and was _letting_ her play.

Because if she accepted that fact, she would also have to accept the fact that she was stepping right into the strangling grip of his puzzles.

 

The phone was specially made, a gift she had made from her Father's electronics company. It was able to store more than enough gigs of information, and every night she typed into it into the long hours between dusk and dawn, even while wishing Summer shared her dorm so she didn't feel so alone lying on the deep red comforter. On top of holding a large storage system, it encoded files upon request, using complicated keys that were only translatable if you spent a childhood watching your mother cipher codes for the government, which Irene had. Little disks filled with acid prevented tampering on the inside, the circlets prone to cracking or breaking upon forced access to the chip. To top it all off, a password would light up on the screen and demand an answer.

 

I am ____ locked.

 

If she suspected Mycroft to be half as smart as he was, he would know the password in an instant. At least if it concerned the safety of his little brother, he would. She had planned to leave the phone on his desk, and hope what little information she had gleaned would prove to be enough to bring Jim to justice. It wasn't much and she knew that, but it had to be enough.

She had worked too hard and had one too many close calls for it not to be.

She had betrayed too many people to not get to redeem herself in some small way.

 

When all this clears, she promises to tell Summer everything. To kneel at her feet and beg forgiveness, and do no small amount of pleading towards John and Sherlock too. Harry, well she'd be giving her family recipes for the rest of her life she suspects to make up for this.

 

The evening had come rather quickly. Looking back on it, Irene would remember the way the snow glittered in a wet sort of way, melting under the peach rays of the sun as it faded from the sky and turned it the colour of her favourite sherbert. She would remember it not because it was _her_ favourite, but because of that first date with Summer at the movies, seemingly an eternity ago. How her entire face had lit up upon tasting it, mouth turning up into an exquisite smile that had made Irene want to lean in and kiss the sweetness of the dessert from her tongue. Had made her want to explore that mouth and learn it's flavour, share in the happiness and joy that made those freckled cheeks dimple.

Instead she had been so distracted she had tripped, abandoning her usual grace and nearly falling on her butt on the cinema carpet with a wince.

 

She would remember Summer's laugh, echoing in her brain like a siren calling her home.

 

Irene came back to her dorm to find the door wide open, and the place pitch dark.

That was the first clue that she should have just turned around and started running.

Except she can't.

 

Because she remembers Summer's words to her at lunch, sending her heart rate spiking so that the phone slips from her numb fingers in the hallway and lands with a clatter.

 

“ _I'll meet you at your Dorm after school okay? Love you!”_

 

Silence echoes down the Dorm hall, too quiet for a floor filled with teenaged girls. She hadn't noticed until now.

How could she have not noticed?!

 

_**No.** _

 

It was okay. Breathe. Just a coincidence.

Maybe most of the girls wanted to go get a pizza, after all it was only a few days after the holiday....

 

_**No! You know it's not true.** _

 

Her mind shouts at her, and she feels her legs tremble as she charges forward, gripping the door-frame with white-flushed knuckles. Blue eyes wide, she peers into the shadows, breath hitching as she sees movement in the dark. Something glinting like metal by the closed, thick curtains.

 

 

“S-Summer?”

 

Her voice carries into the silence, drifting into a sort of plea.

She wishes it's her.

Prays hard so that her reluctant tongue moves in a silent _Amen_ automatically.

It does no good, her hand reaches for the light switch with a fearful resignation.

 

Light illuminates the scene, and Irene closes her eyes in pained confirmation.

In the stretch of silence that follows as she takes in the sight of Summer tied groggily to a chair and gagged, blood running slick down one side of her face with a gun casually crushed against her temple by Sebastian, she utters a numb

 

“Fuck.”

 

Jim stands with a wide grin from the seat he's taken in Irene's favourite rocker, smoothing down a pristine dress jacket that appears at once to be new and yet suited his figure perfectly. His voice is low and dark as he steps into the light, coming lazily around to Summer's side. Irene shivers as he reaches out to cup her dazed and freckled face, stroking her cheek almost lovingly.

 

Her heart pulls at her painfully as her girlfriend lets out a strangled whimper at the contact of those fingers. She hates to see how Summer's holding back tears, and she wants to lunge forward, to wrap her hands about Jim's neck and watch him asphyxiate under her grip, yet she's pinned in place by the gun pressed against that blonde temple.

The side she ironically tends to layer with kisses in the depth of warm nights spent together.

All of those kisses now seem bitter and sour under her tongue.

“Hi there sweetheart. We were in the neighbourhood..... thought we'd drop on by..... found us a nice little present....”

 

Jim's chuckle is rippling and rich, laced with a dangerous sort of poison. When his fingers come away laced with red, he sticks one into his mouth, tasting the coppery liquid like trying fine wine. He watches the woman stiffen at his actions, and he licks his lips for emphasis before straightening.

 

It takes Irene a moment to find her words and for the pulsing red to clear her vision, but when it does she manages to sound somewhat lucid. Though under the calm is a tension that's coiled like a compressed spring.

“Let her go Jim. We had an agreement.”

 

She sees Summer's eyes flicker, confusion at her words. She mumbles something into her gag, but stops when Sebastian pistol whips her aggressively. Irene starts forward, teeth gritting into a snarl, but Jim pulls at those blonde curls until her girlfriend lets out a horrible moan, blood pooling down the pale column of her neck.

“Not a step closer dear. Or the next hit will be with a bullet. She'll make a lovely corpse I'm sure.”

 

He purrs.

Like a marionette with her strings cut, her clenched hands fall helplessly to her sides. Irene feels tears begin to corner the edges of her eyes, traitorous and hot. Her throat burns with them as she forces them back, lifting her quivering chin defiantly. She wants to kill him.

Wants to light that smile on fire and watch him shriek in agony.

She wants to skin Sebastian alive, and watch him suffer and know that there would be no quick end even as she pulls his flesh from his body.

 

Jim sees the hatred in her eyes, and grins evilly.

The perfect concoction, two parts love and three parts anger, one part fear.

He knows he's got her under his thumb.

So what he adds is just is own personal brand of cruelty.

 

“That's more like it. Looks like I was right. Like a good little whore, you'll do anything for the right price.”

 

His eyes flash, and he motions towards his feet.

“Now. _Kneel._ ”

 

Irene sneers at him, even as Summer trembles under his touch as it scratches lightly along her cheek. Her silent question rests in her green eyes, looking at Irene with the expression of a wounded bird.

 

_All this time..... What have you been keeping from me?_

_I trusted you._

_**I trusted you.....** _

_Who..... are you?_

 

She had known this was too good to be true. Irene had been waiting for the catch in her little fairytale, and it looks like this was it.

This would be the tearing point.

Her shoulders slump forward, and she steps forward with dragging and heavy feet. She refuses to look at the girl beside her, who's shaking her head and begging silently for this not to be true.

Pleading with shining eyes that the person she thought she knew so well isn't actually a stranger.

 

Except no amount of begging can hide the truth as Irene kneels before him, cheeks burning with shame and tears running down her cheeks in stoic silence. She doesn't shake, but it's all she can manage as his fingers come around to roughly force her chin up and she's staring into those black eyes. They shine with madness, like a black hole.

A starless night, snuffed out by the deepest, darkest tar.

What's left of her fury surges up in her, and in one last stand at resistance, she spits up at him.

 

“What do you _want_ your fucking _majesty?_ ”

 

Jim's smile is as elusive as it is cold, his hand reaching back to tangle in her dark curls. Tugging her to her feet painfully. Irene refuses to cry out, her teeth gritted. Tears stream down her cheeks, and the last thing she feels is the way Moriarty's lips bruise hers. His growl sends a shudder through her spin and she sobs and fights it even as she can't pull away.

Beside her, Summer lets out a sound that can only be described as a mix of disgust, horror and fear.

 

“Honey, you should _see_ me in a crown.”

 

Then he throws her to the floor so hard that her head cracks against the hardwood, and her entire world explodes into a myriad of colour before it turns inky black as a velvet cloth cloaking her form.

The phone is what Mycroft's men find later, abandoned on the floor of the hall.

Nothing else.

Not even a drop of blood on the abandoned chair where an elfin girl one sat tied.

 

It's code is lying patiently there, glowing in the dim light like a spark of hope.

 

_**I am ____ locked.** _

 

*****

 

Mycroft is expecting them.

John can tell because they're not the only ones to barge into his room. Lestrade sits beside him, his mouth a thin line. As well Officer Kyousuke paces impatiently, trying to string together the pieces before him and failing. Harry's also been summoned, her sleepy demeanour giving evidence that someone had woken her from her beauty sleep.

Or nightmares.

 

Everyone gathered at the elder Holmses' Dorm, protected by the men in suits that crawl all over the room like flies. Those that are visible look menacing enough, but Sherlock has no doubt in his mind that the real ones to fear are the ones that remain in hiding and unseen.

 

When the two of them enter everyone visibly relaxes, though the tension in the room doesn't even start to fade. Harry charges forward and wraps John up into a tight embrace, crushing him to herself like she hasn't seen him in years and muttering a relieved

“Thank _God_ you're okay.”

 

Turning to Sherlock, she doesn't bother even trying to hug him. Instead she settles for giving him a once-over with her eyes, narrowing at the signs of withdrawal. He knows she sees them just like she knows he sees them in herself, and the two for a moment pass an unspoken connection built on the stress of moving past addiction.

 

Finally the Detective's eyes flick to rest on his brother's and from the coolness in Mycroft's gaze he can guess that the news he brings him is not filled with hope but leaden with negatives.

His baritone rumbles in the silence.

 

“He called. It's Jim, but you already know that from the way you just averted your gaze. You also know he has Summer and Irene, and that he's playing a game. He sent you clues. Give them to me.”

 

He says all of this with blatant calculation, listening to John's sharp intake of breath as he controls his anger. Sherlock can taste that fear, singing from him like a rippling bell. It sharpens his resolve to get this case solved as quickly as possible. His brother rubs a tired hand over his eyes like this whole thing has taken a number on him already, and he leans on his umbrella when he stands out of habit more than necessity. Greg silently comforts him by taking his hand and rubbing smooth circles into his knuckle and he lets him without comment.

Mycroft's voice is clear.

 

“ _A_ clue Sherlock. Not clues. _A_ clue. We did a sweep of his and Moran's Dorm and found the place wiped. Utterly clean and not a speck or hint of any shady activity. Almost the same with Mrs. Adler's room, only one thing proved to be even remotely suspicious.”

 

Walking over to a mahogany polished desk, he lifts a paper package up along with a small, black and rectangular device. Handing them both to Sherlock, the teen sees it's a phone.

Staring up at him is a request for a passcode.

 

_**I am ____ locked.** _

 

“Some tests have been run on it. We have reason to believe it to be Irene's. The marks of her father's company lie in traces on it. However, trying to get possible information from it without the password would be unwise as it has certain measures installed so it self-destructs upon tampering.”

 

His brother frowns, eyebrows drawing together slightly in the barest glimpses of his irritation.

“I'm afraid my people are of no help in this area.”

 

“My, you're doing your best. You can't blame yourself....” Greg vainly tries to console the elder Holmes in hushed whispers, even while watching Sherlock turn the phone over in his hands and stare at it calculatingly.

Piercingly.

John looks over his shoulder, curiosity edging his stress forward.

“What's in the package?”

 

He murmurs, and Sherlock slips the phone into his pocket before turning the brown paper over in his fingers. Officer Kyousuke steps forward, meaning to assure him that scans have been done and the parcel was deemed not dangerous. However before he can the Detective is already tearing off the wrapping, coming face to face with a leather binding and gold printed letters.

His hands hover for a moment over the title, a nervous tongue darting out and brushing his lips in confusion at what sits in his hands.

A book.

It's.....a book.

 

The crimson cover is simple and old, and the stenciled letters hover over a rough sketch that seems almost handmade. It's a golden depiction of a little girl in a hood, holding a basket of baked goods. Looming in the woods behind her are a pair of ominous eyes, glittering and huge in comparison to the little girl's prone and fragile form.

John reads the title out loud, voice etched in bewilderment and disbelief.

 

“..... Red Riding Hood? What the hell....?”

 

The clue gazes up at them coldly, giving nothing and yet everything away in it's whispering yellowing pages. From it's dog-eared body flutters a bookmark to the floor, and stooping to grab it, Sherlock finds a handwritten message lilting towards him. He can picture the mocking tone in the words, can taste them like poison on his breath.

 

_**First clue Sherlock.** _

_**Better hurry, because I don't think even big girls should wander alone for too long in the dark....** _

_**After all, who knows what could be hungry for just a taste of our Little Red Woman?** _

_**Tasty little thing..... but you would know, wouldn't you?  
** _

 

_**Best of luck~** _

 

_**J.M** _


	55. I Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sort of a segue for the next chapter.... and foreboding. And Sherlock confessing. :3
> 
> enjoy!

 

 

“.....Sherlock.... how does a children's story have anything to do with Irene and Summer?”

 

Sherlock, who seems to have decided that becoming a gargoyle would be a lovely job to uptake as he crouches on Mycroft's sofa, clicks his teeth together audibly in frustration. He runs a hand through his dark curls, voice thickly laced with irritation.

 

“It's a _riddle_ Lestrade. The whole point is to _solve_ it. I don't know _how_ it relates yet. But I assure you I will. So long as you _stop. Bugging. Me._ ”

 

The teacher scowls, his jaw tightening as if he's considering a retort, but John puts a hand on his shoulder and wordlessly shakes his head for him to stop. He knows the look that's on his Detective's face, and it's one of utmost concentration despite the fact that he's been sitting for almost an hour and his legs must be cramping from the awkward sitting position. The way the man's blue-green eyes slide closed again, the way his hands fold in prayer-like thought, all of it is familiar.

 

Harry and Mycroft have both left already, albeit with bodyguards keeping tabs on their whereabouts. The elder Holmes was going to try and track down Moriarty, and John's sister had simply said

“Fuck that.”

 

When it was suggested she stay cramped in a Dorm for hours on end with a lunatic in a belstaff coat and his boyfriend. There were certain things Harry could put up with, insults and barbed remarks being among them. What she couldn't handle was the moon-eyes expressions Sherlock and John would make at each other when they hoped no one was looking.

It was enough to put even a sugar addict's sweet tooth on edge.

 

As it was, John was admittedly getting a little tired of this himself. His hands shook from stress over Summer and Irene's safety, and the cutting jabs his lover would make whenever spoken to were making his back turn taught like a coiled spring. Sherlock doesn't seem to even notice him as he flops down on the couch beside him, not even twitching as John pulls his head into his lap, stroking his curly head and trying to rub the tension lines out of his shoulders with smoothing circles. After a moment of watching them, Lestrade sighs and stalks away to go find Kyousuke, who has been making short work of the pot of coffee in the kitchen.

 

The Head Officer smiles wanly at the man's presence, downing the last of another cup before reaching for another. His hands tremble slightly, and Lestrade guesses he's not used to such a large intake of caffeine. He sees the signs of a tired, ageing man before him, one that was possibly at one time looking into retirement, only to get caught up in this mess. A moment of pity passes Greg's features even as he pulls up a chair, pouring himself a cup and tasting the bitter brew.

Expensive.

Rich.

Warm.

Mycroft.

 

He feels a brief stab of worry over his disappeared lover, but dismisses it brusquely.

There was no helping it, trying to chain a Holmes down to one place for too long, even if it was his own place, was a suicide mission. He would just have to accept it, just like My had to often accept the fact that Greg worried about him.

Constantly.

Something he couldn't fathom. Because the head of a minor government position was to stupid to realize love when it stared him in the face.

It kept each other on their toes, the things they had to accept about each other that they didn't always understand.

 

The Police Officer after a moment groans loudly, cracking his neck before murmuring darkly.

“This whole thing is so wrong. Kids being targeted, like some sort of sick bloodsport. It's enough to make a man lose their faith in humanity just a little. How does a teenager get so twisted?”

 

He says this while slamming his fist on the counter, the noise loud and jarring. Greg peers at him over his mug, answering him with a surprising moment of insight.

“The same way an adult does. We're really not so different, we just hide our impulsiveness better. This is not a kid any more Tomoya. This is a criminal. Just like Sherlock isn't a kid when he's working on cases.”

 

The man eyes him like he's not so sure, voice a wry whisper.

 

“I've been working in my jurisdiction now for around thirty years. Until now I thought I had done a good job. But seeing this.... _hearing_ about how much influence this Moriarty has managed to gain.... I feel like a failure.”

 

His dark eyes are filled with sadness as he stares into his cup, and Greg winces.

The man looks like a ghost walking.

Haunted.

 

“You can count on him you know. Sherlock Holmes. He's a good man.”

He says then, voice firm. Kyousuke looks up at the man, so serious and sombre and can't help but chuckle just a little even as he finishes the rest of the pot.

The black brew goes down his throat.

Hot.

Too hot.

It doesn't matter though, because a part of the man's weight has lifted. The depressing atmosphere shaking off of him with the little sliver of hope given to him, however faint an unpredictable it is. His voice is a little bit friendlier towards Lestrade, and he relaxes infinitesimally, shrugging.

 

“That he is.... That he is....”

 

*****

“ _..... John.”_

 

“ _Wake up!”_

 

“ _John.....!”_

 

_He opens his eyes, a part of him aware somewhere in the back of his mind that this is a dream. John looks around in confusion, uncertain of his whereabouts. The warmth of a summer evening brushes the back of his neck, so unusual considering he's used to the cold of Winter. For a moment he revels in it, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. He smells things that remind him of home._

_The good parts._

_Like wheat, weaving headily in the hot sun._

_Sawdust, from the neighbour's power saw._

_The flavour of earthy soil._

 

_Things at once familiar and startling._

_He's home...._

_In his home town anyway._

_Except when he opens his eyes again, he's not._

 

_Because instead it's something almost like the dinky little place he grew up in. A pale shadow._

_A poor replica._

 

_There's no one around. Doors lie wide and gaping to houses, yawning in emptiness as if longing for their owners with invisible arms._

_Black holes that make him shiver on the cement road._

_No cars drive by, none looming on the horizon. The air is silent and heavy, humming with sweat and June bugs._

 

_Only the voice, which seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once._

_It's the only presence in all of this strange, alternate dimension that is at once eerie as it is almost comforting._

 

“ _John! You have to wake up!! Jooooooohhhhhhhnnnnn!”_

 

_Tongue running over laden teeth, the teen tries to respond. Clouds move too quickly overhead to be real, their shadows rushing over his face and obscuring his fevered blue eyes._

“ _Who's there? Sherlock? Harry.... is that you?”_

 

_The voice echoes and bounds to and fro, detached and giggling like a child. It sounds like it should belong to a small kid, but there's a sort of mocking edge to it. Something cruel underneath it's innocence as it suddenly whispers right in his ear._

 

“ _You **know** who it is John! You have to.....”_

 

_The teen spins around, seeing nothing. The voice laughs again, this time harder. John frowns, teeth gritting even as he tries to wake himself up. The town is slowly becoming darker, and the doors to the houses begin to open and shut. Slamming and gaping wide like chattering mouths with his agitation._

 

“ _I don't know. Who are you?! Where am I? Sherlock!”_

 

_He calls out almost desperately for his partner, hoping that his dream might humour him and make the Detective appear. He would know how to banish the chattering voice, how to stop the wheat fields from becoming spattered with thick, sluggishly red blood._

_John watches in horror as the voice begins to sing, it's tone swelling to fill his entire dream with it's horrible chanting._

 

“ _ **Come sing with me, come sing with me!**_

_**Dance the jester's game!** _

_**For who can escape the bloody end, and skip their day to die?** _

_**Not Johnny or Sherlock, or Mycroft Holmes three!** _

_**You're all going to die....”** _

 

_John screams as a face suddenly appears before him, bloody and dishevelled. A younger version of himself grips his head in either of his hands, blue eyes glinting madly as he smiles a bloody smile. One part of his head is blown in, the blood spatter dripping into the dirt even as he touches the shrieking teen's forehead to his. Behind him, wolves appear from all sides, their jaws slavering rabidly and their haunches coiled to spring. He sees their eyes like ghostly lanterns, burning yellow into his mind._

 

“ _ **Come along and die with me....”**_

 

 

 

Sherlock catches John's thrashing form before it can fall off the couch. His strong arms wrap around his struggling shoulders like steel bars, holding him even as whimpers claw his throat and his closed eyes squeeze shut tightly. He fights the teen's grip, mumbling in his sleep and going for a blind punch that the Detective barely dodges. His voice is low in the dark as he tries in vain to soothe his partner.

“John.... John wake up it's okay.....John!”

 

He holds his face in his hands, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs into the base of his neck. His partner shudders, eyes flying open and for a moment not registering where he is. They are wet with unshed tears as John gasps, letting out a yelp like a wounded animal before he sees where he is. When he manages to speak it's half-strangled, like he can't quite be certain that the man his hands curl against is real.

 

“Sh-Sherlock?”

 

“Shhh. It's me. I'm here.”

 

His deep baritone hastens to alleviate the fear from John's eyes, and the teen blinks once in confused terror before his face smooths into knee-weakening relief. Before Sherlock can ask what happened he's being pulled closer, all of the blonde teen's form trembling from as much adrenaline as nerves.

Letting himself be embraced, Sherlock keeps up the soft rumblings into John's ear, reassuring the quietly crying teen under him and protecting him with his limbs and body like a dark cave.

It shakes him that John is crying, more than it should.

Not once had he ever seen the teen break down like this, even when he had been in the hospital. It was strange how physical wounds only seemed to make his partner stronger, but the psychological attacks his own mind made for him left him crippled.

He presses a kiss to those blonde locks, wishing he could reach inside John's mind and erase the visions plaguing him.

It would be an interesting experiment.....

Perhaps later when his head and chest weren't pounding so much with unresolved tension.

 

 

John breathes in his scent, struggling to erase the pounding of his heart in his mouth by remembering the taste of Sherlock and sinking into him in unashamed fear. By now he's had more than just a few nightmares in the teen's presence and his guilt for wanting comfort has all but vanished. He is ridiculously, deliriously happy that he is alive all of a sudden as he sucks in that aroma, gripping the front of his shirt and waiting for his emotions to come back under his control.

 

He notices that he didn't realize when he had drifted off, the darkness of the Dorm indicating it had least been long enough ago for a few hours to have passed. Glancing at the digital clock that rests on the stand, he is unsurprised to see that it's well past midnight.

 

Judging from Sherlock's clothes, he hasn't slept a wink all night.

 

_Idiot. Too focused on the case._

 

John also realizes he is bone tired. Afraid and lost.

The panic he's having is from every stretching minute of having to stay awake, worried over Summer and Irene.

Silently picturing what Jim could be doing to them. Imagining Victor's cool smile and vicious temper.

Which is probably why he had the buggering nightmare.

 

He forces his hands to stop bunching Sherlock's shirt, and he lays his head back on the arm rest after a few moments with a shuddering sigh.

Calm.

That's right....

He needed to stay calm.

 

“I'm sorry.”

He whispers then, wiping at his face.

He hasn't cried in a long time, but the past events seem to be catching up to him. John finds to his horror that he starts crying harder, finally letting out all the emotions he's been feeling.

Loss.

Betrayal.

Guilt.

Abuse.

 

His sister is pregnant.

His Father in jail.

Sherlock..... oh _God_ his past.....

All scars he could pointedly ignore, if it weren't for the breaking point.

The wall that John Watson had apparently reached.

 

Sensing his borderline hysteria, Sherlock tightens his grip on the blonde teen's shoulders. His voice is uncharacteristically hesitant and small. It rumbles in the dark.

Asking.

Pleading.

This is a puzzle he can't solve without help, and he's had enough of feeling like a failure because he can't fix things.

Sherlock wants to fix this.

Fix the brokenness in the noises that John is making into his chest.

“John....Is there anything I can do....?”

 

He doesn't respond, and Sherlock shifts so he's wrapping his smaller figure up like a doll. His mind is thrumming with so many things at once. Between the riddle and the time ticking down in his head and the worry and John.

_John._

_Johnjohnjohnjohn-_

 

_**John.** _

 

He's not sure if he _can_ solve it, and that makes him insane. He wants nothing more than to go running off into the night. To hunt Moriarty without fear of sentiment or threat to anyone but himself.

Except he can't, because he knows that when he came back, the people he had somehow, stupidly come to _care_ about would look at him and be angry.

 

John might even punch him, which the thought of is as amusing as it is horrifying.

 

His mind is buzzing like a cloud of bees, stinging and abusing him.

He almost doesn't hear his partner's voice, it's so loud and consumes so much.

 

“Just.... promise me we'll get out of this yeah? Promise me....”

 

He can't seem to find the end of his sentence as his so-tired blue eyes slide shut again. However Sherlock knows how it would end. Fierce gaze softening, he mumbles into John's ear even though at one time he would have scoffed at such foolishness.

Laughed at the uncertainty.

 

“I promise.”

 

And then, because if he's being foolish he might as well be downright _moronic_ , he adds to the sentence what he's wanted to say from the start.

“I love you John.”

 

And John, beautifully oblivious and wonderfully _stupid_ and clever at the same time, grins weakly as he burrows deeper against him.

 

“Took you long enough to say it.”

 

And then, sleepier.

 

“I love you too.”

 

And both of them right there could sing or shout for joy for the way their hearts soar in time with one another, if it weren't for the fact that already they're snoring away. Their blanket each a layer of skin and clothes and touch that's reciprocated in kind.

 


	56. Nightmare Or Reality?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you guess the place?  
> were you right? 
> 
> :3

 

 

It's nearly halfway into the next day when Sherlock finally stirs from the couch.

However, it's not because he's solved the case.

 

It's because it occurs to him today he has his first meeting in rehab.

Boring.

Tiresome.

He should just not go......

 

The case took precedence.

 

Even so, his arm tingles with withdrawal. Plaintive want, calling him and plaguing him like a sickness. It's been almost three days since his last hit, and his entire body was beginning to scream. Become alive like a snapped wire, writhing electrically under his pale shell of skin. The wires tug at him, urge him into a miserable ball of hyper-sensitive angles, and his temper rapidly deteriorates until even John gets frustrated. He throws up his hands in the air after the fifth time that the Detective has made a cutting remark about his idiocy, flinging the teapot into the sink.

 

“Damn it Sherlock fine! It's obvious you want to be left alone! Obvious I'm not welcome here! Let me know when you get an attitude I can deal with!”

 

Stalking towards the door sarcastically, the blonde teen pauses almost in vain hope for just a moment when Sherlock barks out

“Wait!”

 

However, he needn't have bothered. The darkly-curled teen is as distracted as ever as he lies wrapped up in his own mind, not even bothering to sense John's mood.

“We're out of milk.”

 

The sound of his partner cussing loudly and telling him where he can go shove his milk is the last thing Sherlock hears before the door slams shut.

He's not too worried, Mycroft's men would certainly follow John wherever he chose to wander off to. He was also excused from classes, so he wouldn't have to go through the school and risk a beating from the other idiotic kids.

 

He presses his hands prayer-like formation against his lips, shutting his eyes and turning again to the problem.

Little Red Riding Hood.

 

 

In the original story, she was eaten by wolves. However newer versions let her survive.

An old story, meant to warn children not to go off with strangers, but it held a deeper fear.

The age-old hatred of beasts of the wild, woven into society's structure at the core.

For hundreds of years, the story had been used to teach a fundamental and human rule.

To fear the unknown and the monstrous. To not go wandering in the darkness of woods.

 

Woods......

Forest......

Yes, the story took place in a forest.....

 

Sherlock frowns, wondering if his mind is perhaps more than a little bit fried because of it's blatant longing for cocaine. However the thought stays with him.... pulling at niggling in the whirling complex of his head.

Jim would want this to be a personal place.

A land that held meaning.

Wood....

Wolves.....

Wood......

Forest.....

_Wolves._

 

And then the teen sits up in a rush, eyes widening in realization.

_**Oh.** _

 

_**Blackcrow Wood.** _

 

Little Red Riding Hood.

 

Lunging for the phone, he's dialling Mycroft's number before the pieces even finish clicking into place.

When his brother picks up, he doesn't give him a chance to speak before he's rattling off calculations.

 

“It's Blackcrow. Mycroft, get your men to Blacrow Wood. He's planning on bombing it. The fire will spread and reach the town within minutes with the way the wind's been. Tell Mrs. Hudson to clear out as well.”

 

His elder brother's tone is suddenly sharper. Sherlock cradles the phone with his shoulder as he shrugs on his coat, hastily scribbling a note to Lestrade and John if he came back.

 

“You're sure?”

 

Not bothering to deign his brother with a reply, the Detective hangs up. A feral sort of grin crosses his features.

 

The first round was won.

 

 

******

 

Irene could vaguely remember the cold syringe pressing into her neck, injecting her with dark red liquid. She fought vainly against her ties, but her mouth moved heavy and slow. She thinks she can recall Jim's face, grinning at her even as he tightened the knots, pulling her against a large tree.

 

“Just a little incentive to start screaming for help. I do love it when the bait writhes a bit. It's a new formula, something my men in Baskerville are still in the testing process of. They call it H.O.U.ND.”

 

Lips quivering, she hadn't understood why he laughed.

Everything blurred together in an endless rippling wave, swallowing her whole and turning reality into white noise. The snow is cold on her arse, but she can't be bothered to move. Couldn't if she wanted to, with the ropes cutting into her flesh. Beside her Summer groans, also injected with the strange drug. Moriarty seems to drain away into the darkness, disappearing and leaving only his echoing chuckle in his midst.

 

The two girls wait in the approaching darkness, engulfing the forest and casting elongated shadows that stretch and turn into figures of people in Irene's eyes. One is John's, he's scolding Sherlock. It melts away into Mycroft, who's yelling at her. She recoils instinctively. Then it's Summer's face, except that can't be, because Summer is beside her, giggling at a pile of snow like it's the most amusing thing in the world.

 

Then the shadows start to eat each other.

Tearing into dark flesh and Irene can hear their animalistic screams. She shrieks, and soon Summer does too, both of them seeing the forest come alive with hands and teeth that reach for them. As night comes they hear the howls, picking up in number and swarming them. Stalking, coming closer and closer. Her blue eyes filling with horrified tears, she watches as the snow turns red like blood.

 

_This can't be happening._

 

A part of her rational mind whispers.

She shuts her eyes and shudders, fear overwhelming every sense.

Even though there's darkness in being blind, she still hears things.

 

The growling of wolves.

The burning of the forest and writhing of hideous scales.

The breath of dragon's singing her hair and mauling at her neck.

 

And the strange ticking against her chest, counting down to some unknown number.

An unknown destination as they ride in a sea of nightmares.


	57. Johnlocked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry I didn't update yesterday. I've become obsessed with a new videogame, and I'm afraid it..... distracted me ^_^ gomenasai!
> 
> Please let me know what you think!

 

 

 Sherlock is running.

Tearing down the street faster than any sane person should. The engine cries under his pressure, and the sound only makes him want to go faster.

 

He should really, _really_ not be allowed to drive.

 

Mycroft, miles above him in a sleek black helicopter, shakes his head as the black car swerves again, narrowly missing a pedestrian.

“Idiot.”

He mutters even as he speaks into his radio, effortlessly instructing all traffic monitors to ignore his little brother's stunts so he wouldn't be delayed. So far Sherlock had made little to no indication if he was even aware of his elder brother's presence overhead, but Mycroft was certain he noticed. The helicopter would make it easier to locate the girl anyway, so there was little doubt in his mind that Sherlock would complain. The fact that he had called him indicated that he had loosened up a little bit lately in asking his brother for help.

He supposed he had John to thank at least partially for that.

 

Greg was catching a ride with Kyousuke, and John had been informed. He hadn't been able to run back and get to Sherlock in time before the mad Detective had taken off. Still he had refused a ride in the helicopter, mostly because John was too embarrassed to admit he had issues with heights. The fear of falling was one of the few things that deterred the soldier-like teen. He had another one of Mycroft's men drive him instead, and he was the furthest behind as a result.

 

The wind whipped about them, drowned out by the thudding growl of the chopper as it soared towards the town that the two boys had grown up in.

He just inwardly hopes that somehow, this will be the end.

That nothing more will happen.

Mycroft vows then and there to kill Moriarty, before he gave him an inch more of leeway.

To hunt him down until the end of his damned days if he had to.

Putting down a rabid wolf was better than having it infect the entire pack. His fingers flex instinctively around the ghost handle of a gun, remembering that particular lesson his Father had instilled in him at age twelve.

Sometimes death was a mercy.

It stopped the insanity from rotting away a creature's mind.

 

******

Irene at first screamed when she saw Sherlock's figure in the distance. Mostly because of instead of seeing a human being, she sees a lone dark wolf, snarling on top of the snowy hill. Then she blinks agonizingly slowly and the image is gone, replaced by a pale face and dark green-blue eyes. Her relief is audible, and she shivers as much with cold as with hysteria. Beside her, Summer doesn't move. She became silent partway through the night, and her skin is ice to the touch.

 

Sherlock looks over the two girls, and sees both are suffering from hypothermia. It also appears they've been drugged, judging from Irene's reaction towards him and her dilated pupils. He briefly looks over to the elfin girl, cussing as he realizes she's begun to shut down from the cold. Taking off his own jacket, he wraps it about her shuddering form.

 

John would kill him if she died from something as simple as cold.

 

He gets to work untying their bonds, taking out a pocket knife he filched from a supply closet at school one day out of boredom. It glints silver, and he notices Irene's eyes widen just a fraction. He hopes his voice will keep her hallucinations at bay as he murmurs lightning-fast questions even while kneeling in the freezing snow.

 

“What direction did he go? Did he leave anything? Where-”

 

He cuts off when he notices the ticking, and glances down to the bomb strapped to the girl's stomach.

Childish.

A simple construct, one that he deactivates with a flick of his knife towards the right wire. The red lights that blink offensively, tell him that he was nearing _too late_ die and fade.

Satisfying, the feeling that wells in his chest from that.

 

“Sher....”

 

Irene chatters, moving to clutch at the edge of his coat. Her eyebrows furrow into concentration, lips coming together and parting in minute trembles. She seems to be desperately trying to say something, but the noises come out stuttered and uneasy. Even though his impatience swells, Sherlock doesn't chastise her.

Only because he knows John would frown at him.

Scowl.

Instead he pulls the girl next to summer, the bite of the wind hitting his arms. The red-haired woman wraps her arms tightly around the elfin girl then, sobbing noiselessly.

Afraid.

So very afraid because her Summer truly has frozen over. There is no trace of warmth left on her, and Irene wishes fervently she could give all of her own heat to her.

Transfer what little she has to those blue-tinged lips.

 

Jim kept his promise in the end.

 

 

Soon there are ambulances sounding in the distance. The trees sway and bend back, blasted closer to the ground by the helicopter. Sherlock looks up, watching it's huge descent even as he scans the woods for clues.

Some sort of hint, some sort of _sign._

The sheer lack of evidence from even a cursory glance was as unsettling as it was not a good sign.

 

All of this.....

It seems all rather too simple.

Not like Jim's usual games.

 

That's when he notices that Irene has gone back to tugging at his sleeve, chest heaving with the effort to speak. He pulls her upright, trying to hear the raspy whisper that is trying to escape her lips. Whatever it is makes her eyes wide with fear and her fingers tremble harder.

Huge.

He knows soon the medics will be here to take her away, and considering how it seems to take all of Irene's courage just to speak to him now, he doubts if she will reveal her secret later on if he lets it go. Desperate for any kind of information, he grips her shoulders, eyes blazing into hers.

 

“Damn it, speak up!”

 

His baritone commands.

It's the softest of whispers, but he hears it loud and clear as she leans into the shell of his ear. Her voice is slurred, but it holds a weight behind it. A promise.

 

“I.... a-am..... J-Johnlocked.....”

 

Sherlock's eyebrows snap together in understanding.

 

Then she slumps forward, the cold and drug effects too much to handle. His eyes widen as he feels how burning hot Irene's skin has become, and curses again as a hand reaches to find her pulse.

It's pulsing wildly out of control.

The beginnings of an overdose.

 

******

 

The medics pull him away, brushing him aside like a rag-doll. Sitting in the snow, he barely registers John's concerned touch on his face. The blonde teen seems to run back and forth between demanding information about Summer and Irene and fussing over his Detective, undecided where he's needed more. He pales when one man cries that Irene is going into cardiac arrest, and Sherlock has to hold him back so the medical team can do their job. His chin digging into John's shoulder, he distinctly hears his lover's murmur. It's a broken noise, but it holds iron in it that is unbendable.

Immovable.

Not a request.

A demand.

“Don't fucking die. Neither of you get to _die._ ”

 

It's after about half an hour of standing out in the cold that John notices Sherlock's shivering, and swears even as he gets a hideous orange shock blanket from one of the ambulances. Draping it about him, his strong hands forcefully rub life back into the darkly-curled teen's shuddering form.

“You don't need to get hypothermia too Sherlock! Tell me sooner next time!”

 

However he knows by the Detective's preoccupied stare that he's not really listening. His Mind-palace is right now working at full-speed, readjusting things and clicking new synapses together into place. His eyes close, running over the information that's rippling like inviting waves.

 

_Johnlocked._

_Amusing._

_Password for phone._

_Phone holds information._

_Must get Mycroft._

_Must also find clues._

_No clues._

_Damn._

_Bomb is home-made._

_No company logo, all ingredients that could be found anywhere._

_Must get drug samples and test them._

_Apparently has a risk of being lethal._

_Causes hallucinations._

_Potency?_

_Unknown._

_Further research needed._

 

He straightens when he sees his older brother, bounding over to tell him about the phone in cut, clear orders. Mycroft's eyebrows raise at the information, and he twirls his umbrella even as he mutters orders into his phone. John watches all of this half-leaning against a stark tree, shivering at the sight around him.

 _Blackcrow Woods_ was as eerie as ever, the early day sunlight trying in vain to pierce the sharp branches that loomed over his head. Fog came out of his mouth, but he couldn't help but notice little marks of green stretching and thawing. The tree his friends had been tied to was in the geographical centre of the place, arching with grey-black bark higher than many of it's neighbours.

He shivers, dampness running into the back of his coat with the action.

_Little Red Riding Hood._

 

This forest really was like some kind of dark fairytale.

It had really been a miracle neither of the girls encountered any wolves out here.

With the state they were in they wouldn't have been able to even try to fight back.

He can feel the shadows almost closing in on them, whispering lithe gossip about this whole ordeal into the air like wooden old ladies.

 

_**Nearly murdered....** _

_**Tied here....** _

_**Almost too late.....** _

 

Between his worry over Summer and Irene and their state and the growing discomfort he was having in the forest, he stood and walked towards Sherlock, asking if they could go to the hospital. At first the Detective resists, frown etching his features.

There had to be _something_ he was missing!

 

However, Mycroft interjects before he can speak.

“Go Sherlock. My men will do their job without you and probably get it done faster. We need to get information out of Irene anyway as soon as possible, and with Summer incapacitated I suspect you and John are the best bet to do so.”

He frowns then, and if John didn't know Mycroft better he'd say he was deciding how to phrase something.

“As it turns out, she may have been working with Jim after all.”

 

The blonde teen frowns, fists tightening in suppressed anger.

He's not sure what happened behind the scenes, but if she was responsible for harming Summer in any way.....

His shoulders tense with fury.

 

After a moment the darkly-curled teen lets out a harsh sigh through his nose, scowling as he kicks at the snow. It looks like he half-debates for a second ignoring the reasoning behind his brother's words, but finally his shoulders slump into a sulking sort of expression.

“ _Fine.”_


	58. Breaking Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay I promise this is the last kind of filler chapter. From here on out action is happening, and I'm sorry it took so long! D:>

 

 

 

As it turns out, the presence is unnecessary at the hospital, as Miss Adler does not appear to be willing to stay on this Earth alive without some form of care.

She flat-lined in the ambulance, and was still trying to recover from the small heart-attack in heaving gasps.

Medics rush Irene into emergency care, and John catches sight of her sickly pale face just before her gurney is turned sharply around a corner and out of sight. John makes as if to try and go after them, but is stopped by a dour-looking nurse twice his size.

 

The two of them sit in the waiting room side-by-side, surrounded by children's toys and magazines, screaming infants and sickly people. It's maddening.

Sherlock curls into a chair and rocks lightly, hands pressed under his chin, folded in manic thought.

 

Something was wrong.

Wrong with this.

This whole situation.

 

Call it instinct or something as foolish as the idea of a gut feeling, but it wouldn't leave Sherlock alone. It niggled at him, chased him down and demanded action. Everything felt like a live wire, and he knew soon he would crash. The urge to shoot up always disappeared in the heat of the moment, but now it was roaring at him. Turning everything into white-hot noise and almost driving him to his knees. Only the knowledge that he must keep John from panicking is keeping him looking calm and collected, although the blonde teen does notice the Detective's fingers keep drawing back to the crook of his elbow.

 

Soon he would break.

He would snap, and he was afraid that if he shattered, by the time he righted himself again Jim will have done something unforgivable.

Being in a hospital makes his cravings sharpen. Turn into a pointed needle digging into the base of his neck. The chemical smell promising drugs he could pinch or slip into his coat pocket with no one being the wiser. Lord knows he had done it enough times before. It was stunning how nobody gave you a second glance when you stole a hospital gown. His thoughts begin to tear into themselves, demanding action. There's a loud humming and the lights are too bright and every noise is too _loud_ and grates into him. Like howling winds the case seems to become a muddle of hopelessly complicated information inside him, all order going to hell as the last of his resolve begins to fade.

Even a lousy _cigarette_ would be better than nothing, and John seems to recognize what's beginning to happen as Sherlock buries his head between his knees, letting out the faintest sound of pain.

All of the information is just too much to hold without burning him from the inside out.

Turning his brain to ash and his spirit into a snarling animal looking for blood.

His entire body begins to shake.

Like an atom bomb getting ready to burst into white-hot light over an unsuspecting village.

 

This is his true form, Sherlock's ugly colours, and until now John had only seen glimpses of it. However he glances wildly about and sees all the little kids about and the innocent civilians and realizes he needs to get the teen somewhere on his own and _fast._

 

The Detective doesn't even seem to notice when John drags him to the men's toilets, gripping his shirt collar like an owner onto a leash. Limp and compliant, Sherlock collapses into his own hell inside of his head.

 

The screaming that starts inside the stall seems loud enough to bring down the hospital around them. Nurses rush to the scene, but they soon realize there isn't much they can do except call the number that John shouts at them, even while cupping Sherlock's head in his hands. Kneeling on the bathroom floor, he only hopes that there is an end to the storm that crackles louder than the booming thunder that begins outside.

The rain pours for the first time, no longer snow.

 

Things are beginning to thaw.

Spring like a whip-crack of burning light is making it's presence known.

 

*****

 

“He's at a breaking point.”

 

Jim muses as he draws from a cigarette, the ember blazing bright orange in the dark. Sebastian looks up from his gun that he's cleaning, an eyebrow arched in silent question. Their hotel room gazes over London in all of it's splendour, and even though he's only a teenager Moriarty looks like a King surveying his domain in the kind of regal way he leans on the balcony. Of course, he's actually observing his people, milling about in the crowds, blending in perfectly as a demonstration of their skills. Like insects they permeate everywhere below, like fire ants mixing in with another, docile colony. Soon they would lay their eggs, plant their seeds and expand.

Take over the ant hill.

Thrive.

His invisible army.

Years to come looked bright......

 

“How do you know boss?”

 

Jim grins and exhales smoke at the question like a fire-breathing dragon, eyes dancing. His hands tremble just slightly, a barest hint of his own withdrawal symptoms showing.

An experiment.

 

“Because I'm close to _mine_ , and I have cigarettes at least.”

 

As if to prove a point he rolls up his tailored sleeve, showing the needle-point marks. He rubs a finger over them almost lovingly, closing his eyes as he imagines what the next hit will feel like. The pain mixes with pleasure in him, and he shivers in the night, outlined by the lamp on the stand.

Sebastian sees those marks and shudders just a little, licking his lips as he sees a familiar hunger lurk in Jim's eyes.

Ignite like gasoline being poured over a couch, a match lit nearby.

 

He has all of a second to set down his gun before the man attacks him, pressing him up against the wall.

The cool metal weapon skitters across the floor, having only one bullet in it's chamber.

One shot.

 

For one specific person.

 

Jim growls against him, wild with withdrawal as much as lust.

“Soon he'll be _begging_ me for cocaine.”

 

He whispers the word _begging_ like the most seductive curse word, balling his hands in Seb's shirt before bruising his lips with a kiss. The blonde man at first is resistant, but soon he can't deny the twitch in his jeans and tilts his mouth for better access, a stuttering moan escaping his lips. In response the Irishman chuckles, biting marks into the soft flesh under his chin and sparking tingling shivers all down Sebastian's abdomen.

Pooling into heat below.

 

Jim parts from him just a fraction of an inch, panting lowly into the breath between them. His gasps are warm against Seb's cheeks, and he finds himself scrabbling for a hold as his legs try to keep themselves upright even while Moriarty knees his groin gently.

Incentive to stay still.

 

“And when he _does_..... we'll have a certain friend pick up his little John as _leverage_ to come back......”

 

His breathy whisper holds a promise, and Sebastian feels something bloom in the middle of his chest.

“Are you saying _I_ can take care of him?”

 

He half-growls, making the question pointed by leaning into Jim's touch. The Irishman chuckles darkly, licking a nervous tongue over his lips. His eyes shine blackly like the devil's themselves.

 

“Clever, _clever_ Tiger. You always read me so well. That's why you're one of my _favourites_.”

 

He plants another hard kiss along his jawline, blooming a perfect red mark that was sure to linger even into the dawn. He works at the buttons along Sebastian's collar, pulling them apart one by one with delicate precision that speaks levels about his concentration.

 

“Before the finale though, I think we have to heat things up just a _little_ bit more. To ensure John fully realizes our capabilities and comes along willingly when the time comes.”

 

Ripping the shirt away, Moriarty seems to have given in completely to his hunger. He doesn't care as Sebastian winces in pain when he bites down on his collarbone, letting his nails dig into the sides of his arm. His murmur against his skin is filled with a kind of savage glee.

 

“The next one will be the sister. That will give just the right push over the edge. _Then_ my dear Tiger, we play the endgame of this round. ”

 

And then Sebastian is pulled into the darkness. Clawed into the gaping black pit that is pleasure and pain and madness. The gun lies abandoned, but not ignored. It shines like silver in the dark, the only witness to their plan to murder John Watson and shatter Sherlock Holmes.

A silent and uncaring vigil.


	59. Tentative Compromise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter, because I feel the guilt ;A;
> 
> plus it's better written because I had more time! sorry guys! I love you all! <3

 

 

Sherlock thinks he hears voices.

At least, ones that aren't in his head. They're new, and don't scream like the ones in his mind for something it can't have.

 

They're actually deathly quiet, murmuring above his head like he's not even there.

Idiots.

He finds irritation prickles down his spine, a strange sensation when he can't exactly feel the rest of his body at the moment. Everything's numb, a blissful coasting from the licking fire that had threatened to eat him whole only a few hours ago. It was strange how the sensation felt under him, the feeling of nothingness.

Like a candle he had burned at both ends for such a long time that now he felt little more than grey ash. Weak and somehow fragile.

Irritating.

 

It was dark, but that may be because his eyes were closed. Try as he might, Sherlock found he struggled to open them. When he managed to let them slide a crack, bright light immediately made him wish he hadn't. He let out a low growl, rolling over painfully on the bed he lay on only to find an I.V tug at his arm. Someone moves, pulling him back from his side before he rips it out. He recognizes John's low tone.

The voice that he had heard.

Or at least one of them.

 

He vaguely recalls a story about a person who was made of an echo. They wandered forever, reverberating and mimicking other people's voices, trying to find their own. That's what John's voice sounds like now, a copy and not quite real.

Two-dimensional.

Sherlock can't recall how the story ended. He must have deleted it long ago.

 

“Hey. Don't move okay?”

 

Practical, doctor-like hands slowly ease him upwards, carefully minding the bruise that had bloomed on the back of Sherlock's neck from falling on the floor. It was now throbbing, though he could immediately tell that the drip was giving him some kind of numbing sedative to offset the pain. Which was why if felt like he was coated in a rubber tube. Whatever it was though, it wasn't morphine. Past experience showed that Sherlock did not handle that drug.....well.....

Without opening his eyes for fear of the harsh stabbing lights again, he voices his suspicions about his whereabouts.

 

“Mycroft decided to bring me to rehab?”

 

John's hands tense just slightly underneath him, and Sherlock knows he was right in his deduction. It was obvious really, given the evidence before him.

 

Wearily he looks up at the blonde teen's face, noting how John's eyes look tired and frayed. His lips are a thin line as he quickly gets a cup of water from the night-stand next to the bed, almost considering helping Sherlock drink from it until he notices the teen's murderous glare at the thought. Snatching the cup from his hands he takes a long swig, shuddering at the acrid flavour from the tap even as he cupped his head in his hands and groaned lowly. Sitting himself down on the bed, John awkwardly hitches up one leg so that he sits partly cross-legged beside him. His entire posture is delicate and almost timid, but hides a certain line of militant control. Which really just means that John is trying very hard not to yell at him right now.

Inwardly Sherlock sighs.

 

It seemed he could never win on some level.

 

He would always make someone upset.

Maybe that was just his nature.

He had dissapointed people before though, and didn't experience the amount of pain he did now.

Curious.

Foolish.

Sentiment was an obnoxious, useless thing in these moments.

 

He wasn't really sure what to tell John to wipe that defeated look off of his face.

The look that screamed that he was afraid that he was losing something important to him and that he was trying very hard to stop it. He didn't like the haunted expression on the teen's face, it reminded Sherlock too sharply of the way he had first come to him.

Broken.

So instead he sticks with the facts, because emotions are not his strong suit.

Facts should straighten things out.

They always had before.

 

“I used to have these attacks more often.”

 

Sherlock hummed softly, blue-green eyes flicking towards the ceiling. Like he was was some kind of wild animal that needed cautious handling, John's voice was carefully cultured and calm.

Beneath it is an icy fury. Not directed at Sherlock.

Directed perhaps at the world.

He really didn't blame him if that was the case. The world could be a cruel place.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Mhm.” Sherlock confirmed lightly, lying back gingerly and wincing even as he noticed there was a lock on his door.

Keep him in?

Useless.

He would pick it in seconds if he felt like it.

More likely to keep unwanted visitors out.

Mycroft's personal touch.

 

“Then it was worse because I hadn't built my Mind-Palace. Everything was constantly jostling for storage space, clawing for equal attention. It was..... it was madness John. I couldn't hope to stop it, there was no way to silence all the noise. Mycroft half the time would find me on the floor, writhing and screaming. I-”

He swallowed, throat tightening as for a moment the teenager was amazingly, at a loss for words on how to describe the feeling of losing oneself in their own mind.

Trapped.

 

“School.... the other kids were too stupid most of the time to understand. I hated the noise, and the constant humming, and how I was expected to sit for long hours of the day when I could learn so much more by _moving._ If I ran I could calculate faster, if I paced I could connect things in my mind so much more quickly and alleviate the pressure in my thoughts. The need. Jim, he had the same problem. I couldn't- we....”

 

John shushes him then, understanding the unspoken bond with Moriarty that so often chained Sherlock in the past. His eyes narrow as he guesses where this conversation is headed.

“Sherlock.... I _can't...._ ”

 

The teen grips his curls in his hands, and his voice almost cracks.

Almost.

“I _need_ it John. I need cocaine and my brother won't let me out of this building! I have to _solve_ this!”

 

Sherlock looks into John's eyes then, begging him to understand. Willing him to comprehend. The blonde teen bites his lip, worrying at the pink flesh even while closing his eyes in pain from seeing the desperation in the Detective's face. He draws a ragged breath, teeth sharp as they draw across skin. Taught.

 

White.

 

The teen had promised himself he wouldn't beg, but seeing John's hardening resolve against him Sherlock was very close to breaking his own promise. Finally, the blonde teen lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head and rubbing at his face frustratedly. John can't believe it.

He was actually considering....

 

No.

 

But....

 

“I need to go see Summer.” The teen murmurs softly, and that's the only answer Sherlock receives. He watches John shrug on his jacket, clip the buttons gently. He hates that he's been pushed this far, driven to asking the blonde teen this. Hates himself.

But most of all Sherlock hates that he's afraid of the voices.

Afraid of the screaming thoughts that drive him to his knees every time they return. They would too.

And when they did, they would inevitably make him wish in the deepest realm of his mind that he was still unfeeling. Still a machine.

John had changed him, and most of the time it wasn't unpleasant.

Except when it mattered most.

 

John opens the door to the rehabilitation room, hand tight on the door knob for a beat before he closes it behind him.

Sherlock is alone in the white room, alone with his own mind and it's more threatening than anything except perhaps the idea of crawling back to Jim.

Playing right into his hands.

He curls up into the corner of the bed and breaths, elbows locked around his knees like he can keep away the sharp edges of his own mind if he made himself small enough.

A child.

A man.

A frightened person.

 

Pathetically human after all.

 

*****

 

Summer woke to the sound of a familiar voice chatting to themselves. Awkward but kind and amusingly distracted. Not the voice she wants to hear, but somehow less painful.

John.

 

“So.... they say you will be waking up soon.... Not sure when....just wanted to let you know... any time would be okay...... Irene's going to be fine, we had a bit of a scare, but the doctors said her heart-rate is steadying out.”

 

The sound of uncomfortable shifting beside her. Summer inwardly winces. A part of her had wished he wouldn't mention that name. She's not sure how she feels about it, and is uncomfortable with how tightly the pressure builds in her chest from just mention of it.

Like she should be screaming.

Or perhaps crying.

Except she can't, because she's also overwhelmingly angry.

Yes, anger was good.

It stopped her from forcing herself to wake up just so she could break down and sob into her friend's arm.

Chin up.

Soldier on.

 

John carries on talking to himself softly.

“Sherlock found you in time..... Not that I doubted..... He always solves it in time...... I wished he didn't feel like he was incapable..... He's probably gonna have you repay him with school gossip though.”

 

At that he laughs, and the sound is as much nervous as it is fond. Summer feels a smile work her lips, and slowly she opens her eyes.

John's small grin stretches wider, and he comes closer to her bedside, dragging the plastic chair he was sitting on closer.

 

“Welcome back to the world of the living!”

 

She clucks a small groan, reaching up to feel her face to make sure it was as bruised as it felt. He helped her sit up in the sheets, the world swaying before Summer for a moment before she was able to have it swim back into perfect focus. Her freckled face scrunches up into a scowl as she leans for the cup of water on the bedside stand, swishing the cool liquid down her throat before croaking a question.

 

“How long?”

 

The blonde teen scrubs at his hair, making it stand on end as if he had stuck his finger into a light socket. His voice is rough, as if he's been spending more than a few hours shouting. At what was anybody's guess, but she privately suspected it had to do with a certain darkly-curled Detective.

 

“Only about a day....You were just suffering from shock really. Kyousuke's going to want your report as soon as possible, so when you feel ready.”

 

John's eyes soften, and he folds his hands in his lap in hesitation for a moment. Summer waits patiently, letting him gather his thoughts. Letting the teen gather himself for what is obviously to be the beginning of a difficult conversation. His voice drops a tone lower as he murmurs

 

“Look, don't tell Mycroft especially.... but Sherlock's seriously considering taking up using again.”

 

She groans in part horror and part frustration, throwing her head back against the pillows and pinching the bridge of her nose.

He hadn't.

Was that moron really so bloody _logical_ that he hadn't considered John's feelings at all in this manner?

 

“He asked you to get him some, didn't he?”

His silence is more telling than any words. Summer slams her fist down on the rail.

 

“That selfish-”

 

“Don't.”

 

He breathes, and he reaches out to stop her from sitting up further. His hand on her shoulder is firm, but it trembles ever so slightly in place. Stress, John notes absently.

Summer feels fury bubbling up in her stomach, and her brilliant green eyes narrow to slits.

 

“How can he be so fucking selfish as to ask you something like that?! How can he-”

 

She makes a noise that's a cross between a curse word and a scream, reaching over and pulling John into a bone-crushing hug so that his head is burrowed against her side.

Violent perhaps, but she had brothers. No kind of affection was ever gentle.

 

To his credit he only struggles minimally, finally accepting his new somewhat awkward position and leaning into his friend's rough condolences.

John's voice comes thicker than he wants it to as he mumbles.

 

“I just wish he saw how important he is. I know he says the body is just transport but when he runs himself down like this I-”

 

He cups his face in one hand, shuddering. For a moment John can't speak.

Then he stutters back to life like a malfunctioning car.

 

“He just doesn't _understand._ He doesn't seem to realize that I can't _do_ this without him. He's my best friend..... he's....”

 

Summer shushes him gently then and quells John's fear, because no words need to be spoken to describe love.

It's a complex emotion, but a human being can understand it even at a most basic level if they've experienced it even a shred themselves. His hands grip the sleeve of her hospital gown tightly, but ever true to his nature John doesn't cry.

His eyes are shining but dry when a moment later he pulls away, feeling embarrassed about the physical contact.

Ever British.

Ever proper and firm.

 

“He looked at me this morning and..... in his eyes, I saw that it was killing him. This game, it's driving him to do something desperate and I'm afraid I won't be there to stop him when he gets the chance.”

 

Summer looks at the haggard teen, who slouches in his chair and doing his utmost to look disinterested. She feels an irrevocable pull to find a solution to this problem, if only to keep that look off of John's face. It's too much like how he appeared the first time he went to the hospital. Broken and afraid of everything.

Slowly, hating how she dances around the topic, she mulls over a compromise.

 

“Give him a week.”

 

John looks up, eyebrows lifting. She clarifies hastily.

 

“Tell him he is to spend a week in detox at rehab. Off of everything. That _includes_ cases. If he can last.... promise him a small and monitored reward. A goal..... It's not a perfect plan, but it might keep him from getting the coke from less reliable places and..... Like it or not it might balance him out. Keep him focused.”

 

She fixes her eyes on her friend and shrugs, wishing she could do more. John considers the plan reluctantly, thinking over the idea and how Mycroft as well as he would feel about it. Though the idea of Sherlock shooting up at all is intensely unpleasant, he has to admit he'd rather that the elder Holmes get his little brother the drug as opposed to a street dealer or worse, Moriarty.

As well, if Sherlock was doing well enough, he might not _want_ the cocaine when the week was up. The chance was slim but it was there.....

Then there was the fact that the week would mean that John in the small amounts of free-time he would have could finally visit his own therapist, keep his promises as well.

 

The more he considered it, the more he was forced to believe it was the best of many bad choices.

Fists clenching, he uttered a deep sigh that made the woollen jumper he wore move up and down.

Right.

A plan to move forward.

Hopefully, a plan to end well.


	60. The Almighty Drums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the endgame!  
> It's almost finished my friends!
> 
> I think I may cry...... 
> 
> enjoy! <3

 

 

“So, tell me Sherlock. Why are you here?”

 

The Detective groaned loudly from where he sat sprawled in his chair, head tilted back and staring up at the ceiling with pained irritation. His dark curls splay in perfect disarray with the angle, feet kicked up on the coffee table that seems to be the only thing that keep him from reaching over and strangling the business-like therapist before him.

He was so bored that the instant the pale man had given him his name, Sherlock had deleted it.

His brain was better put to use with more scintillating conversation, he was sure.

 

The room is horribly uninspiring, as far as offices go. Coffee-brown walls marked by tasteful circles in a sort of pattern surround them, the warm colours meant to leave a warm feeling but just leaving the young teen feeling overly insulated from the rest of the world and uncomfortable. Professional degrees and diplomas line the walls, but no personal photographs. Not even on the man's desk, which sits by the curtained off window. As he sits in a sulking sort of pose, Sherlock wonders why Mycroft hadn't just sent him to Hannah Markeley. At least she _knew_ him and wouldn't make him sit like this. Then again, that was probably _why_ he was not allowed to see her. If he had, she would have let him be utterly himself. Utterly mad and obsessive and wouldn't have stopped him. Her methods were to force people to accept themselves and not be ashamed of their own faults, a reason he liked her. However in this case accepting the fact that he was a user wasn't the difficult part.

Sherlock was aware, had always been aware he was born with a potential for addiction. It sang to him lucidly, calling for his destruction.

No, as brilliant as that woman was, she would not have been able to help him with this.

Hannah did not change a person's nature.

She only observed it and made do with what was there.

 

Since his minor breakdown, Sherlock's regained much of his composure. In fact so much of it that Mycroft told him to 'not be more difficult than usual' before he had dropped him off to the dull white building. He know was forced to stare down this watery-eyed man with a spiral-bound notebook and the bite marks peeking out of his collar of an illicit affair (probably a maid, he had enough money to afford it and it was a simple enough leap) and convince himself that there was some _reason_ that this man had been hired at all.

 

The man now tapped his pen in a measured expression of budding impatience, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. Sherlock's hands were folded under his chin as he stared back unblinkingly, irises glinting like a predator's as he he came up with several ideas on how to take this man apart piece by piece. Most were probably illegal on some spectrum.

 

Finally, his deep baritone launches like a cork bottled in champagne, and the therapist braces himself yet again for the tongue lashing he's come to learn is inevitable.

 

“If your question was literal instead of metaphorical, you are aware of why I am here, at least I hope so or my brother is beginning to hire incompetent people. That would not be like him so I assume you met it in a philosophical manner, as in 'why am I here on this planet?' or maybe 'why did I fall into an addiction?'. The answers to both of those are and attempt to get me to delve into my past, a poor attempt at luring me by the way as it's not going to work. I've had to dodge must more subtle attempts I assure you. So the question is do I feel like humouring you? Should I inform you of my supposedly traumatizing past when the reality is that there is no words you can say to change it and it is not the source of my addiction? Should I string you along, give you clues so you make a false diagnosis of my issues like I did with the therapist when I was ten who labelled me a sociopath? She was far more competent than you, and I still ran _circles_ around her intellect. I can tell that you don't especially care one way or another where I end up. You're far more concerned about your wife finding the scratch marks in the headboard of your bed. Or perhaps your daughter coming home early one day to find her Father between the legs of someone other than her Mother. Your jaw twitched, eyes shift upwards as if recalling. You're remembering a time you were almost caught. Frightening isn't it, when someone nearly exposes your darkest secrets?”

 

He grins then, and it is not a nice smile. It is the cold and ruthless baring of teeth that an animal closing in on the throat of a helpless rodent might have.

 

The therapist blinks, lips parted in a very unprofessional gape of shock. For a moment he just gasps in a fairly decent impression of a codfish, struggling to find words. It reminds Sherlock vaguely of the first time John ever heard him analyze someone, take them apart.

Except the therapists' response is far less enjoyable.

He adjusts his glasses and scowls, the pretence of clinical emotional detachment melting away to be replaced by barely-masked loathing.

Sherlock leans forward then, cupping his hands in between his lap. His eyes glitter in calculation, sweeping over him like cold water. Shivering down his spine.

Those eyes sparkle with a driven determination.

A need to distract.

A bored Sherlock Holmes is never a good thing to have, and at the moment the teen was beyond the level of boredom that made him shoot walls.

He wanted to shoot up.

Soon the voices would be back.

Soon, not even John would be able to call him back. He knew this, but what he also knew was that John was in danger of being pulled in, tainted by the same darkness.

That could not happen.

He might burn up, but he would _not_ drag that blue eyed smile down with him.

And that in the end was what this was all about.

Jim wanted to destroy him, but more than anything he was _jealous._

Because Sherlock found the one thing Jim never could grasp.

A heart.

 

 

And like a cornered wolverine, Sherlock was determined to escape this therapy session as quickly as he could so he could protect that heart. Even if it would wind up hating him because of it.

Because even though it was _wrong_ for the teen to have a heart, _wrong_ to love something so good, he did.

He loved him so much that he didn't want the darkness or the voices to go after John.

Having John safe overrode everything.

The need is an overwhelming drumming that threatens to drown Sherlock, it makes such an almighty sound that he is surprised no one else sees it in his icy demeanour.

Watson has wrecked him.

He loved him....

He did.....

 Like a puppet, he had no choice to follow the noise as it became louder and louder in his life. It had lead him to the teen, and had lead him away from destruction before.

Ultimately, he had to listen.

“Shall we make a deal?”

 

At the therapists' chilly silence, Sherlock takes it as his cue to smile a sweet little grin that did nothing to soften the sharpness in his eyes. Quicksilver bright, he has to try very hard not to leap up and grab the man, shake into him his threat in the hopes that it would work.

 

He whispers, not because of the cameras he's certain are watching them, but because it makes the man tense further, shoulder's tightening minutely. Panic.

 

“You tell them this session went well, and I don't deduce your wife's phone number.”

 

*****

**Half a week later**

 

“John.... can you tell me about Robin?”

Slow, steady breaths.

The teen wandered through the fog around him, eyes fluttering even while closed as he lay partly slouched in his chair. His body hung limply before Mrs. Daylear in seat, totally relaxed and pliant in his posture. The woman sat across from him, coaxing him gently as she smoothed down her pin-striped suit. Her dark eyes glimmered with soothing calm, it had taken her patient a good number of days to finally agree to hypnosis as part of his treatment. At first John had thought the whole thing rather dodgy, unsure if something like this could truly help him move on from his experiences. However the woman felt that the teen needed to be able to revisit his past in a way that wasn't nightmare-induced. She had spoken with him for a little while now, and had quickly gathered the gist of his trust issues stemmed from the fact that when he was younger he was never allowed to tell anyone about his Father.

He had been left alone to adapt in silence, and had never even properly mourned for the youngest Watson, the one he didn't much talk about.

 

Most young adults when dealing with this kind of situation felt better put under hypnosis than having someone try to pry them for information. There was a detachment to it, and it meant that Daylear could watch John's expressions without him feeling self-conscious. Leaning forward, her voice is clear and firm. It anchors the teen in his mind, holds him from flying away into the drifting fog. Gently drifting, he hears it command his attention, leading him blindly down passageways he had long ago locked shut tightly.

 

“When I count down from ten, I want you to look up John. You'll see a red door. Open it, and you will be at the day of your little brother's car crash. Remember John, if you feel like it's too much at any time, the safe-word to come out from the trance is 'buttermellow'.”

 

Taking a deep breath, John nods minutely to show he understands. His fingers curl against the armrest, the only outward sign that he is nervous. In the darkness, he hears the steady numbers counting down, making imprints like fire in his mind.

Pulling him farther away from the perfumed smell of the therapists' office and the stiffness of the chair.

Tugging him into a dark place.

 

“Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.....

Four....

…..Three......

 

Two................”

 

The last thing John thinks of is Sherlock reflexively. He wonders if the Detective is okay. Maybe later on he could visit him. The Rehab centre didn't often let visitors come, and the few times he had tried his friend had seemed.... absent.

Driven.

 

That was to be expected of course, but he still hoped.

When all this was done, he was determined to make Sherlock come with him to the little restaurant in his town.

The one called Angelo's.

 

Then he would make Sherlock sit down to a meal, and thoroughly snog him afterwards.

Yes, he thinks they deserve a night out.

Considering with this mess he would probably never even graduate high school.

He'd also take Harry out for ice cream, because she _loved_ rocky road and they hadn't done something like that in ages. Maybe he'd even get to meet his nephew by that point, and they'd go all together.

The thought fills his chest with hope.

 

“ _ **One.”**_

 

John's entire world for an instant swims into black.

Dives.

His head is capped by the blackest waves of his mind.

 

*****

**One week Later**

 

“I have a sister named Clara.”

 

Sean confided in her over coffee, spinning the rim of his mug around and around in boundless energy. His dark glasses glinted in the cafeteria light, and Harry grinned back at his easy smile even while sipping her latte. She absently rubbed at the sore swelling at her stomach as she did so, because the baby was kicking more than usual.

It made her wince, but at least she knew that it would grow up knowing how to knee someone in the groin if nothing else.

 

“Oh really?”

 

She said playfully, setting down her drink.

“And you are just _casually_ mentioning this _why?_ ”

 

She has learned over the past couple of days that her friend is something of a matchmaker. Or rather, he's very good at finding two personalities and seeing how they work. It is a talent that actually brought together his Mother and his step-dad, and he had done it with a number of other friends. Ironically enough Sean was asexual, and had no interest in relationships either.

He told her this awkwardly during their third visit, because he was afraid he had been flirting with her just a little.

She hadn't minded too much, mostly because it had distracted her from her problems. Therapy sessions had been going a little better lately, but she still hesitated to actually sit down and talk with Hannah. There was always a block, like a wall.

 

One that just wasn't there with Sean. It was like because he wasn't looking at her, because he couldn't _see_ what Harry saw in the mirror everyday (the scars, the baby bump, the haunted expression) she could trust him to just look and find her.

It really was a pity he didn't want a relationship, though Harry understood......

A pity.....as she thought him to be so much sweeter than any guy she had ever met.

 

Though she knew in her heart she did not really want a relationship either.

With love came intimacy, and she had enough nightmares to wake from to know she was not prepared to cope with the scars that would bring up.

She had just reached a point where it was okay to reach out and touch others.

That it was okay to be brushed by in the hallway to school.....

Though people were not always kind as they passed her.

 

The fact that Sean had been friendly to her without judgement from the beginning had been the first thing that the young Watson had noticed. Slowly over the past few weeks, she had opened up to him. At first it had been slow, and though he had never pushed her for information, Harry had known that somehow, Sean had somehow pieced together her past. It was in the careful way he didn't touch her unless asked, in the gentle tone of his voice when he discussed topics that might be triggering. When Harry had shyly asked why he was here, he didn't beat around the bush. Tapping his cane absently on the floor, he stated point blank.

 

“I was kidnapped as a kid. The bastard blinded me with acid and I was left for dead in a gutter. Does things to a child's psyche, if you know what I mean.”

 

Then he had gone back to drinking his coffee, not inviting any elaboration. Harry hadn't asked for any either. There were some things that just shouldn't be picked upon. Shouldn't be tapped while drinking such a sweet kind of whipped drink.

 

“Clara's sweet. You'd like her, she'd be good to calm your temper.”

 

“You're her brother, you're going to say the best about her.”

 

“Nah.”

 

He replies easily, a lazy smile on his face.

“She snores in her sleep and burns even toast. Which is why _your_ cooking would come in handy.”

 

As he says this he snatches another biscuit from the box she brought, bringing it to his lips and biting off a piece with a loud crunch. Harry rolls her eyes, but knows he doesn't see it. So instead she flicks the side of his head. He winces but snickers.

 

“Well then next time ask her to come. If only to stop these stupid attempts of playing Cupid.”

 

He grins at her, and Harry smiles back easily.

Helping him get his cane sorted, the two leave side by side.

Sean helps her when she stumbles, feeling a little faint all of a sudden. She touches her abdomen and shakes it off, determined to get home in one piece.

 

Good friends, good to rely on one another.

That's what a friend was, and Harry hadn't had one in a very long time.

 

Like Midas' touch, everything turned to gold under the sun in the sky. Melting the snow further so it was slushy underfoot.

 

In retrospect, she should have noticed the crunch of footprints behind them.

Should've noticed the way Sean stiffened minutely, hearing something out of the ordinary as his lips parted and he spun around just in time to be clocked by a fist barrelling into the side of his face. Harry reacted instantly, scrambling for his cane as it went clattering from his hands. The next instant someone was pulling her hair, dragging her away into a dark alley from the still body. She thinks she screams, the sound howling out in the evening light.

There's no one around.

Hands are holding her down, gripping her throat. She can't breathe, and everything washes in red as flashbacks flicker in her mind even as she desperately cries out for Sean.

He lies still on the pavement, blood pooling from his head.

His still silhouette brings a horrible agony to her chest, and she prays desperately for the fluttering of breath in his lungs.

_No._

_Not again.  
_

_Don't make me watch someone I care about die again.  
_

 

Her teeth sink into flesh, white-hot and blood splashing the roof of her mouth. Someone grunts, jabs something cold into the base of her neck. Harry curls into herself, protecting her baby in a last instinct for survival even as the world blurs together in a mesh of colours. Air doesn't seem to want to find it's way down her throat, and her eyes flutter shut in pain.

She can feel the baby kicking, _tearing_ something inside of her.

Hears a deep and cruel laugh, right by her ear.

 

And then there's nothing but darkness, and she feels her body being lifted into a car. A moment later, Sean's is thrown inside as well. His moan is the last thing she hears, shuddering in the darkness.

_Alive._

_  
_The relief fills her, makes her dizzy with the heady feeling.

And then Harry's gone, spinning off into the black.

 

The night a blessing from the horrible hot pain in the centre of her stomach.


	61. Never Apart Again

 

 

Mycroft was used to dealing with stressful situations.

One might say he was an effective master of it, able to stay calm under the worst of circumstances. Which is why he didn't react when in his office meeting Mrs. Henrietta Aria (an alias of course) stood calmly in her seat beside him and without hesitation lifted the pistol to the side of his head. Of course the people around him started, freezing in their places or standing abruptly only to turn to stone when they realized the situation. The elder Holmes felt the cool metal on his scalp, and he did his utmost not to give away the first flicker that came across his mind.

 

_Looks like Moriarty's going to keep me out of this round._

 

 

The petite Asian woman before him seemed to read his thoughts anyway, and her smile was feral. It's strange, how someone so childlike could become instantly deadly with just a simple piece of metal. Mycroft witnessed as men and women, fully grown and wearing the most expensive of suits backed away slowly in panic  from her. Their muffled shrieks a reminder that they were Human, all of them painfulyl mortal. Maybe if Mycroft wasn't already planning a rapid escape in his mind, he would've screamed as well. Doubtful, but one never knew. He was aware that Gregory would probably panic when he heard. He knew, or at least hoped he wouldn't do anything foolish. They had discussed these kinds of scenarios sometimes, and what they were to do in vairous situations. Dating someone like him, it was only inevitable. The elder Holmes was just fiercely glad that it was his neck on the line and not Gregory's. He knew what it was like to feel helpless with someone you cared about on the other end of a gun, and knew he never wanted to feel that again. He was still concerned of course, after all his life was threatened. However, it was still a better situation.

He preferred this infinitely to the alternative.

 

Reaching easily into her pocket, the woman beside him pulled out a delicate black paper lotus. The way she placed it right before the elder Holmes with a sweet smile on the table had a whispered finality that seemed to imply the worst was yet to come.

 

*****

 

Sherlock's arms braced themselves against he bathroom counter, gasps shuddering through his entire system even as little water droplets spattered into the sink. His eyes search for his own face in the mirror and finds it as he pants, eyes blown wide and his face pale as a sheet under the sallow light. He scowls at the dark lines under those irises, at the trembling in his limbs, at the indefinite twitch in his palms. Tightening his fingers, little crescent circles dig into the back of his palms. The pain is controllable, a variable that he can bite into and knows well.

 

He knows something else as well.

That someone has followed him into the bathroom.

 

Even driven to the absolute edge of his endurance, he was still Sherlock Holmes. A monkey could have done a better job at being less obvious.

At that he smirks, because the man that creeps behind him is lithe like one. His features speak Chinese, and his build screams mercenary. Those dark eyes are unreadable as without a word he slinks forward, placing something small that clinks gently on the counter. Sherlock's eyes are closed, and his breath comes laboured from his chest. The air seems to hang in front of him and stagnate as he listens to the nearly soundless footsteps retreat. He knows he will recognize the spidery scrawl on the small manilla envelope just by his hand, knows that if he dares to open his eyes he will see what he wants to see.

Sherlock's been waiting for this.

Dreading it.

 

Tasting it with each passing day, knowing that Jim wasn't so stupid as to let him recover.

No.

Moriarty loved to keep him suffering. Off balance.

Guilty and burning and uncomfortable.

 

And a part of Sherlock loved it too.

Suffering for so long meant he was alive. He couldn't picture a world any more where pleasure and pain didn't mix into an irresistible high.

The message is simple, done in red ink.

Sherlock's fingers tremble, and the crook of his arm tingles in want as he reads.

 

_**Thought I'd make this next round interesting. Your choice, you have approximately fifteen seconds to decide. Do you play this round?** _

_**Do you give in to your desires?** _

 

_**Or do we continue this bedtime story?** _

 

_**-J.M** _

 

His fingers find the little vial, tourniquet and needle inside the envelope. The glass is cool against his skin, but it feels like it brands him.

Whispers to him the chance to escape.

He had been _waiting_ for this. Wanted it in the long hours, sitting with his now blubbering therapist and praying that John or his brother wouldn't notice how each of the reports the man had given were getting steadily repetitive.

 

…..So why when he looked in the mirror, did he just see a blue-eyed smile and a hand reaching for him. Something John had once told him, echoing in his ears.

 

_It must have been awful.... given a choice.....What would you have chosen?_

His response then had been the first time he realized that maybe the feelings he had for John were no strictly platonic.

That maybe he felt more than just friendship.

That maybe he was capable of finding his long dead heart and breathing life back into it's unbeating valves.

 

_**"Depends on the person I was trying to keep with me. Depends on the name engraved in that watch...."** _

 

He knew what name was engraved if he did this.

What was at stake.

It had only ever been one person.

One sound.

The echo of John's laughter, breathy and beautiful replays itself effortlessly in his mind.

 

The thought made him almost physically sick, and before he could register what he was doing, he flung the envelope across the room like it was the worst kind of poison. The next instant his fist came around, smashing itself into the mirror and causing an ear-splitting _whack_ to echo through the bathroom.

He probably alerted the nurses who were meant to be watching him of his disappearance from his room.

 

No matter.

Sherlock barely felt the blood that trickled from his bare knuckles because already his mind was shouting at him.

Begging him to take back the rejection.

Pulling him by the collar of his shirt and choking the breath from his lungs.

There was nothing he could do.

The vial had smashed into white-crystal powder with the impact of the wall, the precious liquid he wanted so badly trickling all over the tiled floor.

His last chance at going back to being cold and unfeeling.

Gone.

He didn't do it.

 

… _.He didn't do it....._

 

John finds him that way, curled into a ball and trembling. As if from underwater he hears the blonde boy shout at the mess and at the blood that stains the front of the teen's shirt. Sees the way his eyes widen when he sees the shattered jar and the needle, and the way his face twists because he fears the worst. Kneeling in front of him, the Detective sees those blue eyes and how they ache in pain and then confusion as he sees that Sherlock's wrist bears no needle marks. Shocked by how wordlessly and automatically those dark curls bury themselves into the teen's shoulder. All Sherlock can manage to say is

“I didn't......”

 

He's not sure if it comes out as more than a whisper, but he knows somehow that John understands by the muffled sob of relief that shakes him. Then he is lost to the warm circles John's hands are making in his back. Drowning in the touch that he is so unused to and yet craves. Drifting in the soft tones he murmurs against the shell of his ear. Sherlock wants to apologize, wants to be sorry for being so weak as to need this kind of support.

This affection.

Yet he had just given up permanently a life where this love wasn't involved, and so he couldn't stop himself from leaning into the touch.

The taste.

The flavour that made up his world now.

 

That's when the voices for just an instant quiet.

Become still from their thrashing and screaming for just a second.

Like a harmonious chord all of them sing a single word.

A name.

 

_John._

 

_JohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohn-_

 

 

He snaps back into reality, and Sherlock can't stop himself from holding him.

Kissing him back desperately and curl into him even though it's impossible. He feels the bond with Jim, already frayed and broken snap, but he's not left floating.

Instead he's tethered by an unbreakable heart, a steel chain that surrounds him in it's simple honesty and complex emotions.

 

John.

 

He knows it will never break.

 

Sherlock realizes the what words that keep repeating on his lips are now. The words he muttered to everyone he ever cared about, the ones he had screamed late at night in his head the day his Mother had died, and the words he had whispered in the dark when Mycroft had been too disappointed with him to speak.

The words he shouted at himself whenever he felt like he was left behind.

Forgotten.

 

“I love you. Please don't go. I'm so, _so_ sorry I'm like this.... I love you.....”

 

It's the most open thing he's ever said, and he knows that the reason John shakes over him is because the teen never expected Sherlock to voice how much he needed him to keep himself from falling apart into pieces. The confession is sharp and razor-edged, and he's afraid if he lingers on it too long it will cut him to pieces.

They are both afraid.

Finally, because John can't take one more tortured apology, he seals his lips over Sherlock's. The kiss is gentle and warm, and both of them taste the comfort in it. The flavour of tea and coffee, like two opposing forces coming together. Sleepless nights.

Worry.

As they part their foreheads rest against each other, and John's voice is so small and rough that the Detective wonders if he might cry. However his partner's eyes are dry. Instead he's horrified to find it's his own cheeks that are wet. Those hands are gentle as they brush away the tears in his eyes, dispelling all shame of them in their warm tracks.

 

“Don't. Don't ever apologize, I wouldn't have you any other way. I won't _ever_ leave you. I promise. I promise.....”

 

John's eyes close then, and he threads his hands in Sherlock's curls. Not pulling, just holding. Just making sure he is still there in front of him. Normally, the Detective doesn't like his hair being played at.

For once, he doesn't complain.

For once, his mind is blessedly, wonderfully _quiet._

 

**..... _..John......._**

 

 

They are both rocking, curled around each other silently on the floor when Lestrade comes in what must be at least a half hour later. The teacher looks haggard and panicked, but he has the grace to manage to at least look slightly embarrassed as he sees the scene before him. Neither of the two teens seem to notice him at all, but Sherlock's deep voice is oddly subdued when it speaks.

 

It sounds calmer than it has in months.

If his heart wasn't squeezing itself into a tight knot the longer he stood in place, Greg might have noticed.

 

“Something's wrong. Tell me.”

 

The teacher's voice manages to stay steady, but even as he speaks his hands ball into tight fists.

 

“My's not answering his phone and I've been told he's been taken hostage. Moriarty's threatening to blow up the entire government building if you don't show yourself...... Harry's gone.”

 

There's the sound of John's breath stopping, then coming faster as he rises weakly to his feet. Sherlock helps him to his feet with such gentle care that it's shocking, and when Lestrade sees the teen's eyes, he no longer sees a petulant child.

He sees a man with a piercing stare, one that blazes like the hottest fires of Hell, and in that moment he is reminded so sharply of Mycroft that he feels a shudder ripple through his spine. He sees what's been missing from Sherlock until now, what he never seemed to be able to express clearly now written on his face.

 

His sense of purpose.

A need to protect something _precious._

 

Love manifesting into the most magnificent kind of flame, blue fire crackling in his irises and engulfing anyone who dared meet that gaze.

 

Without a moment of hesitation, Sherlock strode forward and then past him.

His voice offered no hint of fragility.

It was as steely as a knife and made Lestrade for just a moment viciously proud and terrified of the young man that paced ahead of him.

Already miles further ahead mentally than everyone else in the hall. Beside him and yet part of the same entity, John doesn't even seem to realize that he's holding hands with possibly the most dangerous man in the world. A symbiosis so complete that's it's hard to tell when it happened, or where one starts and the other begins.

 

“I need my coat. I know where the next clue will be.”


	62. The Endgame Part 1~ Check

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here's part one of the endgame! :3 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! this is the end drawing near! <3 and then an epilogue and it's finished ;) thank you all so much for loving this story, and I hope that when the time comes you will love any sequels or blasts to the pasts I make!

 

 

“There was someone else.”

 

Sherlock paces the scene of the crime, coat collar flicked up against the warm spring air as it pulled at his dark curls. Yellow tape already covers the entirety of the street by the Therapists Office, a good deal of it coating the inside as well, from what John can see from where he stands. His hands tremble in his pockets, but not from cold or fear.

 

It's tightly controlled anger, kept on a leash just barely with the knowledge that the best man is one the case.

 

Fingers balling into fists, he leans against the brick wall unobtrusively, trying not to look too closely at the dark stain that marked the pavement in a small semi-circle. Sherlock had said he was reasonably sure it wasn't Harry's, but it still sickened him, being here. There was a difference in going to a crime scene and imagining the actual crime happening to your loved ones. Like a ghost he could imagine horrible things, visions of nightmares that could not possibly be real but served as a desperate incentive to make sure that _no one_ got in Sherlock's way as he stalked about. Twice he had already yelled at one of the forensics team, telling them they had the overall I.Q of a radish.

All in all, so far so typical.

 

Except somehow, it was all _faster._

Gone were any hesitations, vanished was the fog that had held Sherlock back all this time. No one disrespected him when he gave orders, and no one looked at him like he was a child when he effortlessly pointed out that the other person must be blind (scuff marks from the cane, plus a pair of dark shades found broken on the pavement). There is no longer a mental block, the attitude of apathy swallowed with fascination for the puzzle and determination to exact revenge.

 

And Sherlock _wants_ revenge.

 

He wants to tear Jim apart limb from limb, squeeze his hands about his throat until something breaks, taste his blood on his fingers.

He was done playing the game, now it was time to simply exact his prize. Close in on checkmate and have the man beg at his feet for mercy. The teen isn't sure if he'll give it, after all, according to the marks on the ground someone had treated Harry pretty roughly.

 

“She put up a fight.”

Sherlock grunts for everyone else's benefit more than his own, and hears John give a tightly wound chuckle in appreciation for his sister.

Yes, she would have.

Knowing her, it would have been at least a right hook or a well-aimed bite before she was subdued.

However, the Detective is more concerned about the fact that Harry lately had been showing signs of stiffness and discomfort because of her baby.....

 

That would have slowed down her reactions. Possibly even immobilized her if they got in a lucky kick to the stomach. That could damage the child too....

 

He doesn't voice this aloud though, because he's noticed John's pale face and shaky countenance. Best to keep mere speculations silent.

Standing, he turns to Kyousuke, who stands nearby issuing orders into his radio tersely. He's already sent men to encircle the government building Mycroft is in, and they are evacuating the surrounding buildings as they speak. When the tired looking head of police noticed the stare he scrubbed at his jaw and sighed, waspishly snapping to attention despite the exhaustion that tremored in his limbs.

“What is it Sherlock?”

 

He says with a resigned sort of expression, and the Detective's green-blue eyes narrow in calculation.

“Is this even your division?”

 

“The Yard's a little low on funds right now, we don't have a D.I.”

 

The way the man says this with a small shrug makes the teen scowl and mutter something about 'blasted government budget cuts' before turning to the silver-haired man who is currently trying not to get in the way even while simultaneously managing to trip up every single officer that passes him.

“Lestrade!”

 

Rolling his eyes slightly at the imperiousness of the young man's tone the teacher steps forward, shoving his hands into his coat pockets even while crossing the line of yellow tape expectantly.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

 

“Find me Hannah Markely and ask her who is the blind individual Harry has been meeting for probably the past couple of weeks. He'll be a trauma patient, possibly a long-term patient. No, likely. I need Kyousuke and John to come with me to view the footage.”

 

True to his words, the man they see in the grainy images bears a white cane. The images that capture the two figures show Harry's warm smile, the silent laugh the young man gives in response to something she says. Watching it, John's chest constricts painfully as the shadow descends on the two, ruining the picturesque quality of it all. The person is hidden by a black mask, but by the lithe way those limbs swing to strike the back of the young man's head, Sherlock sees signs of The Black Lotus' influence. More so when Harry spins, aiming a typical punch at the man's head only to be swept into the shadows of the alley by glove-clad hands. It's difficult to see the other man who had been waiting to ambush them, but Sherlock is certain by their height that they are male, and probably ex-military instead of assassin material. They hold themselves in too burly a way as to be of the same cloth as the other one. The van is black, nondescript, and the licence plate is of course blocked out. Moriarty isn't a moron after all. However the tires are lined with mud that's not from the city, and if he squints he thinks he sees that there is also gravel, so he's leaning towards a warehouse somewhere.

Still, something's wrong.

The soil on the tires looks almost.....

wet....

 

As if on cue his phone vibrates in his pocket, and he already knows that it's the next clue. Pulling it out hastily, he opens the blinking screen, holding it out so John can read the message that's there taunting them luridly.

 

 __ **Jack and Jill**  
Went up the hill  
To fetch a pail of water.  
Jack fell down  
And broke his crown  
And Jill came tumbling after.....

 

_**Better hurry Sherlock, this one is only twenty-four hours. I owe you a fall..... Give John my fondest regards.** _

_**-J.M** _

 

Beside him, the blonde teen lets out a low cuss. However Sherlock doesn't really hear him, because something is clicking into place in rapid succession. His hands fold under his chin as his entire mind races towards the answer, words coming faster from his lips than he even realizes.

 

“Does the school have a well?”

 

Before John can answer that the teen twists the ring in his ear and rocks slowly, going over the layout of the grounds in his mind. Every crack in the pavement presents itself, every notch in each tree, and he combs over the grounds in his head like a dying man searching for water until he finds the barest hint of something useful.

No.

Not a well......

 

But a hill of grass that looks very much like a well could have once _stood_ on it. From the depths of his Mind-Palace, a dusty books moves itself and flips to the right page automatically, turning to the exact paragraph that he'd read years ago in the library, bored out of his skull and trying to drown himself with literature at the time.

 

_St. Adelaide's, once being an old hospital, was built on top of the original burned structure. Several things were deemed not useful with it's original design, among it the old War cellar and the well that once gave the entire town water....._

 

His eyes snap open, sparking with electricity.

He doesn't know _how,_ but Moriarty never left the school at all.

He's managed to escape Mycroft's cameras and men like a thief in the night, and now he was playing his endgame.

 

_**Got you. Check.** _

 

Sherlock thinks triumphantly, gripping John's sleeve already and dragging him under protest towards the car. He is halfway there before the world begins to tune itself back into clarity, coming in in bursts and snaps like a crackling station coming back to life.

 

Lestrade's voice from the crowd, calling out to him breathlessly even as he pushes his way through the crowding witnesses.

“ _Wait!_ I found Hannah!”

 

John hears the teen's low curse, and realizes he had just gotten Greg to go off on his little mission to be rid of him. Straightening, Sherlock does his best to look at least somewhat sheepish as he grins crookedly at his ex-therapist, who is glowering at him in a very un-Zen-like way as her arms cross over her chest.

He does his best to stand tall and not flinch, but that can be difficult when one comes to realize that Hannah has brought Mycroft to _tears_ at times with her fury when he wronged her, and the dread of dealing with one of her backlashes is at once unpleasant as it is undesired.

 

Reading his expression, Hannah sighs as her deductions were correct. Her shoulders slump in resigned defeat, even as she makes a mental promise to herself to get Sherlock to apologize to the confused-looking silver-haired man beside her.

 

“His name is Sean if you haven't already guessed. And he'll probably be having some triggering flashbacks, so his black-belt in karate might not be as advantageous as you're hoping. Chances are, he's tied up in the same place she is. _Go_ Sherlock.”

 

And she smiles, and it's a familiar grin that the man has known for most of his life. It's attempted to comfort him even in his darkest times, and he cannot help the small smile back as he realizes he is surrounded by people he _likes_ in a job he _enjoys_. He'd never admit it in his life, but he is truly _happy._

The only thing that would make it better is winning this.

 _Finishing_ the puzzle he instigated and paying for his crimes.

Then moving on to a new one, this time with John in tow.

 

 

The most ironic thing was, he hadn't planned on living much past thirty. It was strange, how already he could imagine a life ahead. Like the sun had finally separated from dark clouds, guiding him and banishing the endless night that tore him to pieces so many times.

Peace.

Peace amongst chaos.

Sherlock at his finest element.

He feels whole.

 

Grabbing the blonde teen's hand, he's off.

Willing that dream to someday become a reality. Storing it in the giant cavern of his Mind-Palace that makes up his other half.

His sun.

 

Though the John refuses this time to let him drive, snatching the keys and ignoring his sulking pout even as he slides into the driver's seat.

“Only just learning, but at least _I_ won't view children and old women as collateral damage.”

 

He murmurs, starting the engine up.

Sherlock is going to make a snappy comeback, but suddenly the blonde teen silences him with a chaste kiss upon the lips.

His sulk is slightly less stormy as they speed, his fingers already flying over the keys of his phone as he gives directions for Kyousuke and Lestrade behind.

 

*****

 

Harry is hurting.

Everything is a dull fire, wrenching her underwater in it's licking flames and stealing the breath from her lungs. She is burning, struggling to breathe, as each intake of air alights her abdomen into liquid nitrogen and she chokes back a scream. Her moan echoes in the darkness, muffled by a rag that stinks sourly of chloroform, making her dizzy and nauseas even more than usual. When she opens her eyes wincingly, she is not prepared for the sight of a vast tunnel arching over her head. She thinks it's just her vision is narrowing at first, until her feet reach out tentatively and feel cool dirt. Circular in nature, she realizes that she is at the bottom of a wet and dark hole God-knows-where, the slatted wooden boars overhead blocking all light except for a notch in the wood that sheds faint evening glow. It shines right in her eyes when she looks up so she has to squint, and she is jolted in surprise when her low moan causes movement on the other side of the narrow wall.

 

“....Harry?”

 

“Sean!”

 

Struggling to sit up properly, Harry lets out a harsh cry as her entire stomach seems to flip sharply, stabbing her painfully as she comes to realize that not all of the dampness on her legs is water. Her hands are bound with hand-cuffs, but in the dim light she sees red streak her palms as she brushes her knuckles against her thighs and moans in horror and agony.

 

She hears sharp scuffling as Sean senses her by sound and shuffles over to her side, his own hands bound and his breath sharp and gasping in the darkness. In the dim light Harry gasps for just a moment as she takes in his dim features, the glasses that hid his eyes gone now to reveal the somewhat grisly and haunting echo of his last kidnapping.

 

The eyes are still there, the damage apparently not so great that they were dissolved or something horrible such as that, however..... they are the pale and milky blue of the moon waning, the edges of his eyes lined with white-pink scars that extend like the roots of trees in old pattens across his skin. They look unseeingly at her, and guessing the reason for the noise Sean's jaw clenches a little bit in bitterness even as his hands grope to find her shoulder.

 

She helps him, leaning into the touch even as her breaths come quick and shallow. Sweat sticks to her brow as she trembles, the rolling pains in her stomach starting then stopping jerkily, like a clock counting down. Harry can scarcely stay awake, even as she hears her friend trying to catch her attention. Asking her what's wrong with growing panic. He manages to pull the rag free from her mouth, and she dry-retches beside them, her stomach heaving and a sour taste burning all down her throat. She feels like she's going to pass out, her heart thundering in her chest even as her body screams at her that something is horribly _wrong._

 

“I don't.... _nnng._ ”

 

And then her body twists as pain like a snarling dragon wraps itself all about her lower half, her body falling to the ground only to be caught at the last moment by trembling hands. She clutches at her stomach and curls inwards, crying as it feels like her child is somersaulting directly into her lungs.

Sean's features are panicked, and he realizes with certainty what's going on, even if Harry can't voice it herself. His tone turns cold.

Filled with dread.

 

“Oh. _God no_.”

 

Her head in his lap, soundlessly he lets his hand clench with hers. Twisting their fingers together, Sean desperately prays that this is not happening _now_ of all times, because this was most definitely _not_ good and he was most certainly _not_ prepared for something of this magnitude to be taking place. His mind flashes to that time as a small child, curled in the dark, tied and helpless and in agony. His eyes burning. It's the same feeling that's clawing it's way up his chest now, and he can't breathe exactly as his friend's pale lips spread and she lets out a scream that pierces the entire well and flies into the night air, liquefying Sean's bones and making him feel utterly helpless despite all that he's accomplished in his life and all of the struggles he's surpassed before.

 

He can only clench her hand until his knuckles turn red and then begin to ache and beg her to hold on, gritting his teeth and praying desperately for some miracle, some sort of holy apocalypse to come.

 

What he gets a half hour later is a pair of dark curls, and a deep baritone voice shouting above him

“Idiots! Get an ambulance, quickly!”

 

And strangely enough, Harry has never been so happy to hear that arrogant tone before in her life. Her sob of relief would be memorized in Sherlock's mind for years to come, coming to the forefront of his mind at times when he thought of things like torture and suffering and how it would feel to burn alive.

That, and one other event.

 

One that even he would not see coming, until it was nearly too late.

 


	63. The Endgame Part 2~ Absolute Pin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bows in shame* I am so, so sorry this took as long as it did. 
> 
> *places it down, prepares for onslaught of rage*

 

 

 

“Let me through, I'm her brother!”

 

John found himself fighting with the nurses savagely, having to claw his way to the ambulance even as he heard Harry's gasping breaths and cries. It was utter chaos, blue and red lights of police cars glinting and threatening to blind him. They filled the school parking lot and made a hazy atmosphere of rushed people and rushed emotions, clawing their way to an uneasy head. Sherlock was leaning into his phone, barking orders to Kyousuke even as he cussed at the unaffected medics as they fought futilely against John's determination to go with his sister in the ambulance. The blonde young man's face was almost a snarl as he refused to be pushed around, holding his ground firmly even while scrabbling for grip anywhere he could so he couldn't be pulled away. His eyes flashed in the swirling lights as he stared desperately at the pale shadow that was his sister, being loaded onto a gurney even as she whimpered.

 

Harry was one fire.

Like liquid lava was wrapping itself about her, squeezing all coolness from her body, all moisture sucked from her only to be replaced by thousands of nails driving themselves under her skin. Her heart won't stop racing under her chest like a pounding drum, making her want to arch off the bed even as hands hold her down. She is unaware of where she is or what is going to happen. The entire world has pin-pointed itself to a single mark right in the centre of her abdomen. Her existence has shrunk to a single thought in her head.

 

_The baby._

 

A sun-blasted prick of white-hot intensity.

 

Then John is there, face hovering over hers. He's shouting something, gripping her hand tightly. Sherlock is beside him, shoving aside paramedics that try to pull her brother's hand from her grasp. She clings to him desperately, choking on the breath in her throat.

Hot like burning ash.

Harry does her best not to let go, but then someone is pricking the inside of her elbow with a needle. The cool liquid fills her, makes her veins as heavy and sleepy and lead. Eyelids fluttering, she has to fight desperately to keep John's face in her vision. He blurs in and out, lips moving but no sound reaching her ears. She tries to tell him, wants to say to him what he's to do if she doesn't make this.

If....

If she dies and her child lives.

Tries to.

She's not sure if she actually manages to say anything at all though, because John just runs a hand through her hair before he's finally yanked away, this time for good.

Harry wants to tell him that she loves him.

She wants to be able to say that she's happy he's found Sherlock.

She wants to say a lot of things, but before she can darkness overtakes her.

 

*****

The wait in the emergency room is laced with taught nerves and bitten knuckles, bruises and pacing and lack of sleep. It is tinged with rocking heels, shaking hands and more than one person burying their head against their knees. It is laced with chemical, medical smells. Scents that John knows but cannot identify by name. It is the flavour of a hospital, plain and simple.

 

He hates it, in that moment.

It sours in his throat and makes it almost impossible to breathe. He sits in the uncomfortable waiting chairs and clasps his hands in front of his face, trying to will himself not to succumb to the clawing desperation pounding in his chest.

 

He is not alone.

 

The waiting room is actually filled with people.

Faces he recognizes and faces he doesn't.

 

Lestrade.

Curled up in a tight ball in his chair and speaking in low tones with Kyousuke. The tension in his neck and back reveal that Mycroft has still not been rescued from the building.

 

The Head Officer himself, looking tired and drawn even as he discusses options with the school teacher and mutters into his radio.

 

The other victim that had been kidnapped with Harry. At him John's mind falters a little, because he doesn't really know who he is. The young teen hasn't spoken much since he was checked out, butterfly stitches crossing over his forehead like a map and disappearing into his hairline. He called himself Sean. That much he remembers. He is not terribly tall, but has a muscular sort of build without being burly. In it John sees whispers of self-defence training, despite the fact that his white cane and dark shades hide the power that lurks under the skin. He twirls his cane in his hands even as his head is lowered in silent thought, and a moment later he takes out a phone and texts something to someone.

Possibly a relative.

 

John wonders to himself when it was that Harry started to make friends again.

The fact that he doesn't know the exact date is distressing. He feels like he should've known. That he should've expected _all_ of this, that.....

 

That he should never have left Harry alone to fend off their Father.

And there was the truth, and he gasps and chokes back the rising emotions that come with feeling like you're losing your mind.

 

In the end, Sherlock has to shove the cup of coffee right in front of his face for him to notice it. When he accepts it John looks up at him with big blue eyes and blinks owlishly, as if he can't quite remember what's going on. As if time has somehow trapped him and he's that small boy again, flinching away from his Father's fists. The Detective grimaces at the thought, hands reaching out as if to pull his lover back to the present time. John's voice is raspy, thick with emotion.

 

“Just.... Don't tell me it's going to be okay.... don't tell me unless you know for sure....”

 

Sherlock blinks in understanding, and in a rare display of public affection pulls John halfway into his lap and wraps himself about him protectively. Shutting out as much as he can of the hospital around them by physical touch. John notices the way the blind young man's grip changes on the cane, and how he seems to look at them and see despite his sightless eyes.

His lips purse in thought, and he taps a rhythm out onto the metallic staff.

 

In the end it's nearly three hours before a nurse comes and tells them anything.

When she does arrive, it's only to tell them what John's already suspected.

 

His sister is dying.

The baby when into premature labour, knocked something loose. He couldn't pay enough attention to her cold and clinical voice to exactly recall what. As it was they had already been forced to remove the baby by C-section, but now they were trying to stop the bleeding. It would be touch and go from this point on, clear facts not readily available. At this Sherlock scowled, offending the nurse as he told her exactly what he thought of her detached attitude. John numbly realized not all of his insults were purely for his benefit either. Somewhere along the way, Sherlock had begun to care for Harry too.

 

_Please God, let her live._

 

*****

“He still hasn't removed his people from the government building.”

Kyousuke murmurs tightly, sipping at his coffee and rubbing his tired eyes. Sherlock scowls, baritone rumbling next to John's ear quietly. The blonde teen at some point had fallen asleep. Natural reaction, he must have bee exhausted and with the added stress in some ways he had been just a time-bomb waiting to happen. The Head Officer watches as the Detective absently adjusts him into a more comfortable position, noting the dark glower of thought on Sherlock's features.

 

“That doesn't make any sense. I won the riddle. He should've moved on to the final puzzle by now.”

 

He growls, eyebrows lowering as an impatient rhythm taps itself out on the arm of the blue plastic chair. Sherlock wants to get up, to pace, to stalk the worn tiles under his feet until he wears a hole in the floor. However John's weight holds him in place. Tethers him like a rope wrapped about the ankle of an eagle.

He resists his impulse with a grit of his teeth, blinking slowly as his Mind-Palace readjusted the information inside of his head to match with the current situation.

 

The Game had apparently changed?

No.

That didn't make sense.

Jim was changeable by nature, but he didn't cheat. Too boring.

Too pedestrian. He wouldn't break his own rules even if he was losing.

 

No.

That wasn't his nature.

Then what?

Had he not solved the riddle after all?

 

A maddening heat flushed down his neck, the tang of nerves set to edge. Kyousuke shifted uncomfortably, sensing his tension and feeding off of it.

His hands balled into tight fists before relaxing forcibly.

“Let me know if you get anything.”

 

He says crisply, but Sherlock doesn't really hear him. He's locked himself down in his Mind-Palace.

So much so that when John awakes sleepy-eyed and hair mussed up after a couple of hours to see the Detective curled all about him, he can't get even an acknowledgement of his presence. He prods and pokes at the man's shoulder gently, but he might as well have been air. Translucent and unreachable.

 

So sighing, he presses a swift kiss to the sharp edge of his cheek and rises, looking for a nurse.

 

Something had to have happened by now, he figures.

 

*****

 

Ten hours.

That's how long it takes before John is told he can at least see the baby.

Not Harriet, but his nephew at least.

It's a confusing mindset, to see himself as an uncle. Like wearing a jacket a few sizes too big.

Bulky title.

He shakes it away even as he tells Sherlock where he's going.

 

The Detective, still lost in his thoughts doesn't hear.

 

It's okay though, because a silent Sherlock at least means he's on the tail of an idea.

Chasing after Moriarty, if not physically then at least mentally.

 

A smiling nurse who introduces herself as Ella leads him to a small, sterile-white room. There's lots of medical machinery scattered about it in an organized fashion, and in the centre of it all a neonatal intensive care unit. A baby incubator, holding a tiny mass of twitching legs and and pink flesh. For a moment, John can only stand in the doorway, biting his lip and unsure of himself. His legs tremble, threaten to turn into jelly as he grips the edge of the doorway. The hall they are in is quiet, save for the occasional infantile squall. The maternity ward.

Harry.

Mother.

John.

Uncle.

 

These facts swirled in his head, stuck on repeat like a scratched record disk spinning alone in an empty room. Then he almost laughs, because he just described his own mind as empty.

 

_Sherlock would be all too eager to jump on that opening....... **God** he needed sleep if that's all his thoughts could offer him._

 

Ella seems to recognize his hesitation and smiles soothingly, walking around the NICU with light steps to reach out and touch his shoulder, startling from his own inner conflict.

“She's a real sweetheart. Here, come see....”

 

… _ **..Oh.**_

_**It's a she.....** _

 

Guiding him with firm but gentle touch, she leads him over to see his nephew for the first time.

His legs feel strange, like lead and at the same time like air.

Like he might fly away with a wrong breath.

 

The small body in front of him, separated by glass and metal and beeping heart monitors, breathes softly. The sound is the first thing he hears, sounding like the faintest brush of wings. Little blonde lashes flutter against round cheeks, still splotchy in a way only a newborn's skin could be. The colour of a peach, the bare skin almost red but not quite. The teen almost shyly presses one palm against the glass, hardly allowing himself to breathe as he took the tiny creature in amazement and shock.

 

_She's so small...._

 

_Little thing shouldn't have had to meet the world yet...._

 

_Breakable..._

 

His mind insists. Like pointing out fragile china it maps out all the things that could harm such a tiny existence. The pull of protectiveness that surges in his chest is immediate at even the thought. John's jaw tightens, and he sees more.

 

_Strong jaw._

_Breathing firmly._

_Alive._

_Alivealivealive **ALIVE.**_

 

… _....... She will be strong......_

 

She will be strong, one day.....

Have to be, to be a Watson. Even if she wasn't, she had an entire family behind her tougher than nails. Both the Holmses and Harry, and him.

 

The nurses' voice is soft.

 

“Due to your sister's condition, we have been unable to give him a name. Mr. Watson, do you have any idea what she intended to call him? Any way we can provide identification for him?”

 

_No...._

 

_Wait...._

 

_Yes....._

 

Though she had never said it out loud exactly, John had often caught Harry staring at the scrapbook she had made for him, fingers hovering over the pictures as she rubbed at her abdomen softly. His eyes close for a moment, his jaw working to find the words that make his chest squeeze.

Finally, his voice thick with emotion, John murmurs

 

“Robin..... I think she wanted her to be called Robin...”

 

He is so absorbed with looking at the little hands of his Nephew- no _niece_ , that he doesn't hear the faintest click of the safety of a gun being released.

Ellen's voice is suddenly sharper, the façade slipping away just a crack.

A sliver.

“A beautiful name, Mr. Watson.”

 

John senses something is wrong, but he is too late as he spins around. He's suddenly staring down the end of a barrel, hands flying instinctively up over his head in surrender as the nurse's cold grey eyes look at him with barely-masked hatred.

 

“Moriarty wants to chat with you John.”

 

The teen's tongue runs over his lips, heart hammering. He is painfully aware of the little heartbeat behind him, sharply and acutely he could imagine the blast of the gun ending that life. The thought wrenches his gut, makes the entire room sway for a second. He hears himself speak as if from underwater.

 

“....And if I don't feel like talking....?”

 

Ellen's smile is candied-sweet. She tilts her head to the side like John is like a fascinating little creature in a zoo. Her words are deadlier than ice.

 

“You're not the only one with a gun aimed at their head at the moment.”

 

_Mycroft._

 

She giggles at the rush of air that drags itself across John's lips, at the way his hands clench over his head. She nods, like he is a good little pet. The thought makes him shudder in revulsion.

 

“Oh, and if that isn't enough incentive,”

 

She adds

 

“Seb's got a really nice sniper rifle aimed at a certain little _dearheart's_ blue-scarved throat.”

 

The teen's chest feels like it's sinking in mud. He closes his eyes and fights the urge to lunge for the woman's throat.

 

_Sherlock._

_SherlockSherlockSherlock-_

 

And diplomatically, Ellen nods to the door. John now sees that there is an emergency exit, and it leads out the back way. The nurse twirls a key for it in her hands.

Her words are final.

 

“Time to play part two honey, you're on stage.”


	64. The Endgame Part 3~ Zugswang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am actually alive! sorry, I have exams, so slow publishing is to be expected :/  
> this was the chapter that would not end it seemed, so I had to cut it into two parts. The Endgame will now be a four-parter. again I apologize.....
> 
> if you are not totally fed up with me, enjoy! :3  
> thanks to all of you who have been loyal reading from the beginning as this story draws to a close.....

 

 

 

“There's no need to push.”

John mutters, hands flexing lightly at his sides even as Ellen shoves at him lightly with the flat of her hand, guiding him through the shadowed parking lot of the hospital. There's no point in revealing the weapon hidden away in her pocket, he has become limp and pliant since the threat of his friends has come into play. Or at least in appearance. Inside, the teen's mind was searching frantically for some kind of opening or way out. His hands rested at his side, relaxed from fists but twitching lightly as they took in stock how Ellen managed to stay just in his peripheral vision. Just out of reach. Not that he would have tried anything, with the barrel of a gun breathing down his neck. He was determined, not reckless.

Usually, anyway.

 

His breath is even and slow even as he sees the coral edge of her mouth quirk upwards in a smirk at his quiet rebellion, the shadows of the parked cars hiding them from security footage. Ellen seems to know where all of the cameras are, she makes him weave in and around the bumpers of the vehicles like a pattern of maze-work that John illogically tries to memorize the imprint of in his head. It's better to think of that than to think of the tiny baby upstairs, still fresh in his mind. It is better to consider the grit-lined cracks in the brickwork around him and the faint smell of petrol on his tongue than to think of the Detective who apparently now had a sniper aiming at his chest in case John decided to act up. Most of all, it is better to not react when Ellen's hand comes up with the butt of her gun, swinging downwards to pistol-whip him across the back of his neck. John's neck snaps back with the force of it, sinking to his knees with a low cry beside a blue Honda. The colour explodes across his eyes like fireworks, and he hears Ellen's voice murmur

 

“Sorry dear, can't have you see too much.”

 

Before he shakily brings a hand up to the back of his head and sees his fingers come away crimson. His last thought is a flash of realization as he touches the back bumper of the car, streaking it with his own blood just before he slips into darkness.

 

****

Sherlock is jiggling in place in his chair, legs crossed and flapping wing-like as his hands wrapped about his ankles like a small child sitting on a carpet, as if waiting only for a teacher to call upon his name to answer a question. Except Sherlock's teacher right now is his own mind, catastrophically rifling through every possible lesson that he's ever taught himself in an attempt to understand the meaning behind the rule-changing of The Game. As it was, the pressure was beginning to build. With Mycroft (ignorant git) trapped with his hands tied and under threat of a bomb, not to mention John still in sergeant mode to deal with the possible demise of his sister, it was a delicate balance. On the one hand, Sherlock wanted the next clue.

No, he _needed_ it.

He was so close to finishing this damn Game and he could taste it, like a heady mix of chocolate and caffeine rushing on his tongue. Like a shot of cocaine, racing in his veins and singing it's sweet melody in his mind. Somehow he knew that if he could just _catch_ Moriarty in this last test, then things would be fine. If not imprison him, at least make him consider the price of Sherlock Holmes more expensive than he was willing to pay. He had to _make_ Moriarty focus on another target, or at least distract him with a new puzzle. A new challenge.

Because Sherlock himself was only ever diverted from a case when something more interesting came up. The question was though:

 

What could fascinate a madman to such an extent that he'd release his hold on his favourite puppet?

Or, alternatively:

 

What could be threatening enough to _make_ him release his hold?

 

Biting one thumbnail in a morose habit left from his childhood years, Sherlock curled tighter in his seat. The cold on his thighs is a frustrating distraction. He tells himself that the longing for a certain blonde head to be lying across his lap is useless and illogical.

It really does little to help.

 

****

When Greg's phone rings and he rifles through his pockets, his heart stops at the name of the contact that flashes on the screen. He raises a panicked hand to grab Kyousuke's attention, and the man gestures to two agents that he's brought in. They sit by a table, laptop open and waiting for this kind of shot at some kind of evidence. Distantly, as if from another planet, Sherlock listens to the conversation. He still feels as though this entire thing, however horrific, is not entirely true to Jim's character. The thing was, he had seen Jim poison other children in their childhood.

Killing was never considered a qualm for him.

In fact, the bombing was the closest time he had come to actually threatening cold-blooded murder.

 

Yet they were increasingly reaching that climax.

That point.

With Irene and Summer it had been a scare tactic.

With Harry however he had the intent to wound.

Next, he suspected would end in a death if he wasn't clever enough.

Not that he was doubting himself.

 

He leans forward on his knees, noting now how the people working for the Yard have stopped looking at him like he's some snot-nosed kid trying to get in their way. A sergeant Dimmock even offers him a cup of coffee, to which he merely raises a brow and scowls menacingly at. It seems that with the threat of the bomb in the middle of the city, people are suddenly deciding to eye him with some respect. The taste is bitterly satisfying, enraging and yet triumphant. It settles an uncharacteristic weight with it, something that he longs to share with someone.

 

At that thought his head snaps up, realizing that John is still off visiting his niece. He sighs, hands clenching slightly as he finds himself with unusual hesitation lodging in his chest. On the one hand, he's sure Harry wouldn't mind him seeing the newest addition to the Watson family. However on the other, he knew John was counting on him to be on alert for news of his sister's condition. Torn between his sense of duty and his selfishness, he catches Greg's voice talking into the phone.

 

“My? Oh God My are you okay?......No everything is not _fine!_ ”

 

He growls into the receiver, infuriated probably by the fact that Mycroft has the actual gall to try and ask him something like that. His fingers run roughshod through his silver hair, as if he'd like to tug it all out from the stress. In the movement Sherlock sees that the man hasn't slept in at least three days, and hasn't gone back to the school to teach once since the kidnappings began. He remembers unwillingly the Christmas Holiday, back when things had been if not perfect then close to it. Though he doesn't always show it, Sherlock had always secretly admired the fact that Mycroft had been brave enough to begin his relationship with the older teacher, all-too aware of the kind of rumours that flew at their expense. The price of loving someone was sometimes harsh like a dog's bite against human flesh. He expected the kind of tact and level of diplomacy from his elder brother, but Sherlock had honestly not expected the hidden honesty and valance that was usually tucked under Lestrade's cheeky professor routine. He found himself secretly glad that for once, he had been wrong. However all of his lingering thoughts are pushed aside as Greg's face pales, and he murmurs lowly into the phone as if to double check what he's just heard. Someone, probably not Mycroft from the way his expression pinches tightly in suppressed fury, barks sharply into Lestrade's ear. What he does next surprises everyone except Sherlock.

He's been waiting for the final clue for a while.

 

His pale hand shoots out in wait for the phone, ignoring the slightly affronted stares that some of the rookies on Kyousuke's team gives him. Greg sighs tightly, standing up and crossing the room to press the smooth rectangular plastic into his palm. His lithe fingers wrap around the edges, and then it is pressed against his ear.

 

“What is the final challenge?”

 

A woman's voice; slight Chinese accent smoothing the sharp edges of her consonants, chuckles into the speaker.

“Straight to the point are you? And here I thought I was going to have a rousing conversation.”

 

“Something tells me a woman of your intellect could barely do her own taxes, let alone tempt me to converse.”

 

“Oh, Sherlock. Now do behave yourself. Goodness knows your _brother's_ not winning any points, being Mr. Tall Dark and Silent.”

 

Sherlock manages to keep the scowl off of his face, if only to keep from alerting Lestrade. He turns away from him just in case, coat-tails flaring dramatically.

“What are you doing to him?”

 

There's a soft, high giggle. The Detective can hear in the background the sounds of people crying softly. Other co-workers, probably being herded into a corner of the room by gun-point. The likelihood of there being more than one person playing guard spiked significantly then. If he was forced to estimate from the noise....

Five.

His eyes narrow.

This is not just any hostage situation. The meeting must have been about something important then. Something Mycroft had neglected telling him.

 

“Oh, you know. Just.... _encouraging_ him a little. Getting him to open up. He has quite a lot of juicy little secrets behind that suit of his, as you know. Though he didn't take so well to the brass knuckles I'm afraid....”

Sherlock keeps his tone neutral, analyzing the situation.

“And because you have hostages and the city under bombing, his men won't touch you. How charming. Remind my brother that if he gets out of this alive, Greg might push him down a flight of stairs for being so obvious.”

 

Behind him, Lestrade jumps to his feet. He can hear the concerned exclamation, but he ignores it in favour of pacing the tiled floor. Venting the energy and pressure that's beginning to build. The woman's voice is mocking, lilting gently in his ear.

 

“Oh now Sherlock, we cannot berate your brother for being _obvious_ when you've so predictably played into Jim's hands up until this point.”

 

“I wouldn't say that. After all, the whole rehab incident and not to mention John's actual _occurrence_ in my life doesn't seem to scream Moriarty. Or tell me, is Jim simply taking to playing matchmaker along with his rise to Dark Overlord?”

 

“Mmm. That's right. The real problem of the matter. Your little.... _pet._ Tell me, how is he? I've been told the live-in ones are the best.”

 

Sherlock's pace freezes, the icy shards of her words sinking in as his head snaps up, absorbing in a second who exactly is in the room at the moment, and who most definitely _isn't._

His eyes find themselves looking desperately for that face, as if he suddenly needs physical confirmation of John's safety _now._ Distracted, his voice comes out tighter than he would have liked.

 

“I'm sure I don't know....what you mean.....”

 

Her voice is a purr on the other end of the line.

“Last clue Sherlock Holmes, last fairytale to tell. Except this one wasn't written by the Grimm Brothers or such nonsense, no. This one is much more personal, so much so you can't have deleted the tale.”

 

Sherlock feels the flash of cold anger seeping into his veins, and before anyone can stop him he's stalking down the hall of the maternity ward, an angry Greg shouting at him in distress behind him. The woman's voice comes to him just as he makes it to the room he knows John's niece or nephew should be, bursting through the door only to find emptiness that makes him see hazed red.

“The Tale of the Lady on The Lake. Six hours Sherlock. No more, no less.”

 

The sound of the dial-tone droning in his ears is distant compared to the roaring of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

 

“ _....John.”_

 

****

The first thing he registers when he comes to is the flavour of algae. Sharp and bitter on his tongue, it sends a wave of nausea rippling over him, his shoulders shivering with the action. He tries to move his hands, finding them locked behind his back. Tied with rough twine that bites into his wrists, creating red lines that blur in his unfocused vision like laces of licorice. Wearily, John lifts his head up from his chest, struggling to make the scene before him make any sense. What he sees does little to help him remember anything. It's dark, four wooden walls surround him. Solid. Unbreakable. No, one of them is a door. He tries to kick it open experimentally.

It holds.

Unbreakable.

Well.

_Shit._

 

He lets his head fall back to rest against the back of the wall, staring up at the wooden ceiling and clenching his teeth. He sees the metal bar stretching across over his head and blinks, realizing he's been locked inside a closet.

In who's house, he had absolutely no clue.

He had absolutely no idea how long he had been out either. The revelation that he wasn't dead paled with the grim realisation that there was probably a good reason his life had been spared. Certainly they didn't seem to mind if he was roughed up a little. He winced as the wound to the back of his head throbbed, asserting his revelation. Curling his legs closer to his chest, John tries to shuffle his hands towards his pocket, looking for his phone. It was gone. He sighed sharply through his nose. Well.

It had been a thought.

 

Grimly, he notices how sharply his breath is coming from his mouth. A stress-related reason, he didn't like confined spaces. They reminded him too much of the hiding places he used to duck into to avoid his Father during his worst rages. He struggles to keep a hold of his sense even as memories flicker behind his eyes, the crude images of tight corners and dark cupboards lacing tension into his muscles.

He knows it is Moriarty, but illogically his heart pounds faster, and his breath comes shallowly through his teeth as he struggles to remember the breathing exercises his therapist had given him for his panic attacks. It would do no good to panic, he realizes somewhat weakly. Though it was true he dreaded what Jim had planned for him, he also knew that Sherlock would soon be chasing their trail, if he wasn't already. The thought is comforting, if only a little bit distressing. Partly because he knows that is exactly what Jim wants, and partly because a very protective voice inside of him screams that the Detective should just leave him behind if it meant risking his life.

 

He knows that's probably the voice that Sherlock would have sneered at. Or possibly hit with his violin. Still it's one of the louder ones. Stifling a small whimper, he tucks his head against his knees and shivers slightly, a thin and pale ball of fear trying to desperately masquerade as something stronger.

Trapped.

 

****

“ _Sherlock, get back here!” Mycroft's voice shouted angrily from behind him, sounding distant in the open air even as the darkly-curled little boy ran recklessly ahead. His knees were scraped from climbs and falls and his green-blue eyes were bright. He's chasing after a ginger head of hair, laughing as he waves the butterfly net that he's brought with him over his head like a sword._

 

“ _Jim! Jim wait up!”_

 

_The smaller, elfin-like boy at the head of the pack stops, dark eyes glittering mischievously as the summer sun paints him luminescent and strange on top of the green hill. Like a small bundle of sharp twigs, his elbows and knees seem to be disjointed and awkward, and yet they move in such a way that one would be able to see if they looked that they would one day become graceful._

“ _Moron! If you don't speed up I'll make you into shoes!”_

 

_Sherlock grins wickedly at the mockery, laughing in childish abandon. He pretended not to notice the slightly malevolent tone in the other child's voice._

 

“ _Then Mycroft will make you sleep outside the cottage! Mummy won't be pleased!”_

 

****

It took the better half of himself not to simply react. Which is what Greg very badly wanted to do as he chased after the younger Holmes, wincing as he suddenly spun around and flung his phone halfway across the room. It landed with a clatter, and the noise echoed so that the tiny bundle before them startled slightly, red cheeks turning redder as little Robin Watson realized she was not alone in her room. The infant, unable to even open her tiny eyes would have even as a fully grown child have difficulty understanding Sherlock's monologue that he muttered too quickly under his breath.

 

“Of course. Always his favourite spot... not to mention the story coincides all too well....Should have seen by the mud on his jacket last time I caught glimpse of him....Not to mention how obvious the bombing-hostage situation becomes when you align everything.... _how did I not see_?! Damn!”

 

He shouts the last part, and Greg says his name sharply when he sees the presence of the baby in the glass shell about it.

“Sherlock control yourself!”

 

He snaps, gripping the teen's sleeve before Sherlock can spin around and make a dive for the fire exit. It's been left open, swinging lightly without a lock to hold it in place. He drags Sherlock out of the room and bodily forces him against the wall, trying to stop the writhing, squalling alley cat that the Detective has become. His teeth grit with the effort of suppressing the taller man as he reaches up and winds his hands in his coat collar, dragging him down to eye-level fiercely so he can express the words that are bursting in his chest like fireworks begging to be launched at someone's head.

 

“Damn it you berk, _stay still_ for one second! We have to look at this rationally remember?! Isn't that what you always say?!”

 

In response the teenager snarls,eyes alight with a kind of unholy fury.

“I'll murder him-!”

 

And then, because Greg is sometimes a very, _very_ impatient man underneath all of his calm teaching words, he pulls back and rather rudely cuffs Sherlock across the top of the head.

Hard.

 

His head snaps back with the blow, his eyes wide as clarity comes with the star-bursting pain that sears across his scalp like fire. Then slowly, his chin lowers and his eyes narrow, and Greg suspects he's going to get a punch back and braces himself for it with a grimace.

Except what he feels instead is the barest of touches on his shoulder, and Sherlock's deep rumbling baritone insulting and yet strangely comforting at the same time.

 

“Don't be stupid. Your fears are unfounded, I am not about to just leave and get myself killed like some emotional romantic soap opera star. But I _have_ to find John. _I know where he is._ ”

 

Relaxing his grip slightly, Greg manages a tight smile. His legs are suddenly shaky because of the lack of sleep he's had recently and the fact that his fears were so easily analyzed. He would eat Mycroft's umbrella before he admitted it, but he genuinely cared about Sherlock and John. In a way he had taken to seeing them as little brothers of his own, and he knew that My would never forgive him if something happened to either of them.

Hell, he'd never forgive _himself._

 

“Still you great git. Even if you've already figured this one out, you have to stop rushing into this head-on. Get Kyousuke informed of what you know. You're not just threatening your own life any more. You're threatening your brother's and John's.”

 

Sherlock scowls slightly, and is just about to open his mouth to object plaintively when they are both cut off by the muffled cries of a tiny baby. Both of them freeze slightly, wide-eyed as they hear the new noise. Robin, having been woken by the commotion both inside and outside her room, has begun to kick feebly, her wail high and tiny. Like the mewling of an injured kitten. It is a sound that Sherlock has not heard in a very long time, and it cows his rage with the terrible sadness inside it. Cools it to be replaced with the sudden and irrational fear that he's somehow hurt the child, despite having not even touched her. He breaks from Lestrade's grip to bolt into the nursery room, where he stops short at the doorway as if he is afraid to take a step closer. The little body before him wriggles restlessly, her tiny fists clenching and unclenching as if reaching for somebody's hand. With the cries there's the distant footsteps of a nurse on her way, but Sherlock isn't really listening. He's staring. Observing.

Because the thing about babies is there's nothing to catalogue.

Nothing to categorize.

No past.

Only future potential.

Only pale skin and rosy cheeks and vivid Watson-blue eyes peeking out from light blonde lashes. He finds he is at a loss for words even though he knows realistically those eyes cannot really focus on him yet. He still feels their weight, demanding that he bring back the child's uncle at all costs. Telling him severely the cost of losing this Game.

John.

 

And he's not sure if that makes him stronger, or if it makes his legs want to give out from under him in fear.

The voice behind him isn't Lestrade's, but he doesn't register that right away. It questions him with a rasping throat, sore from medication and surgery.

 

“Where is he?”

 

He answers immediately, like his brain is on autopilot.

“My family's old cottage. The lake will still be half-frozen over this time of year....”

 

A rough cough, and then he's forced to realize that it's a woman's voice. One he knows fairly well. His eyes widen slightly, and he turns just as the warm tone of the speaker turns amused and sarcastic.

“Well, at least I know my baby will be just as terrorized by you as the rest of us...”

 

Sitting in a wheelchair being manned by a nurse, Harry Watson weakly raises her hand in a sort of wave. Her wrist is attached to an IV, filled with blood transfusion and plasma. Though she is small and pale and thin, she is most definitely alive. Even with the dark, vampiric circles under her eyes and the trembling of her limbs, life flows through that dark-toned gaze.

Obvious, her vitality.

Especially when she gasps because Sherlock spins around in a rare display of affection and wraps one arm about her shoulders in what is for a Holmes, a stunning amount of relief.

 

****

John doesn't know how much time passes until someone opens the closet door. He knows that he's recited the alphabet backwards in his head about five times, and that he's imagined in perfect clarity what the inside of a diamond must look like out of sheer boredom. He's managed to calm himself down enough that the original savage panic he felt has lowered itself into just a low bubbling in his gut, present but manageable. There is nothing to use to escape, not even a bloody coat hangar. It's dark, and the bump on his head has becoming a roaring throb that speaks of concussion. Once he even retches slightly, but nothing but the acrid taste of bile burns the back of his throat.

 

He's just about to consider the fact that maybe Moriarty just plans on starving him to death in the dark (a mildly pathetic end, bur preferable to torture) there is the click of the doorknob turning, and he is assaulted with bright light and rough hands gripping the collar of his shirt. Heaving him unwillingly to his feet. He stumbles, unbalanced because of his bound hands, vision trying to swim into focus even as his pupils narrow from the harsh lighting painfully. He bares his teeth in instinct at the meaty hands that throw him against the wall of a hallway, gritting his teeth even as his shoulders dig into the edge of a picture frame. As he slowly adjusts his vision, he sees the outline of a young Asian man dressed in black. Small but athletic and deadly strong. His hands are twisted in John's shirt collar, pinning him in place even as the taller man behind him grins his tell-tale cat's smile.

 

“Evening.” Jim purrs casually, looking immaculate in a suit and tie. His hair has been combed back, pale eyes glittering in the dark. To an outside viewer he might look like he was attending a dinner party. However John could see even from his position pinned against the wall the lust for blood simmering in those irises. It doesn't come as a surprise when from some invisible signal the Asian man pulls back, planting a solid fist in his gut. John curls against the wall, hacking roughly. The man before him watches, a delighted smirk curling ever-wider on his features. John wishes he could claw that smile off of his face. He settles for grunting in pain.

 

Jim's voice holds all the compassion of a cobra as he comes forward, swaying lightly as if to a song that is only playing in his head. He is murmuring softly, weaving a tale that is edged in a dark tone even as he looks about the house with a kind of mock-nostalgia running on his features. John begins to notice the floorboards, the way they are clean and well-swept. The curtains by the front window have yellowed with age, but at one point they must have been pure white like sugared frosting as they drifted lazily with the wind. He briefly considered screaming for help, but there is a dark green line of forest surrounding the little cottage he seems to have been brought to. The nearest building is another cottage, a tiny dot stretching across a semi-frozen lake.

 

“ _And she ran, oh she ran with her white dress flowing behind her, bloodstained with crimson around her middle even as she tried to escape her Father's rage. She ran into the darkness of the woods, bare feet carrying her forward even though she couldn't see. She couldn't have known.... As her feet crossed the edge of the frozen lake, she could not have foretold the melted ice cracking. Could not have seen for it was a moonless night and the clouds lay darkly overhead. And like a pale sheath her Father, drunken and angry watched as she disappeared under the ice, turning with her lips parted in a scream just before she plunged to her death in the watery depths below...”_

 

John shudders at the eerie tale, lips twisting into a grimace as again the Asian man's hand winds back to strike at him again. This time it's squarely in the kidney. He bites back a shout as stars explode in front of his eyes, dissolving off into the dark edges of his mind and leaving an echoing throb.

Jim doesn't appear to notice his pain, continuing on conversationally.

 

“Do you know that story John? It's wonderfully delightful, and nearly a hundred and thirty years old. Though even I can't say if it happened specifically on _this_ lake. The tale of a woman set to marry a man, but she doesn't love him. She loved a poor village boy with all of her dearest little heart, and plans to elope. However her Father finds out the night she plans on running away, all dressed up in her Mother's wedding gown with a wreath of flowers in her hair. He chases her into the woods, plans on killing her. She runs, desperately searching for her lover's house, but it's dark and she loses her way. She doesn't see that the ice on the lake is too thin and..... well.....”

 

He shrugs, and the movement is lazy and relaxed. A simple rolling of muscles that is reptilian in nature.

“Let's just say there's no Honeymoon.”

 

John says nothing, unsure of the relevance to the story. Not trusting his voice to speak without it either quaking or having such hatred in it that it would earn him another punch. With his quiet Moriarty seems to sigh, as if he were boring. Or stupid.

Probably both.

 

“Take a look around you John. Can you tell me where we are?”

 

At first John is tempted to refuse. To merely close his eyes and let the darkness of nausea overtake him. However suddenly the Asian man is thrown away and Jim's fingers are pressing against his throat. Squeezing. Choking. His eyes fly open and he lets out a strangled gasp, vision turning red as Moriarty snarls at him, suddenly all teeth and savagery.

 

“ _That is an order Watson. Deduce!”_

 

His throat on fire, John looks wildly about, searching in the dark for some kind of clue as to his whereabouts. His eyes rove the walls, taking in the shadowed pictures lining the walls. Faded photographs, the faces younger but familiar. He sees ginger hair, scowling blue eyes. A woman with soft red curls and a smiling mouth. A scowling toddler with ebony curls and a green gaze that cuts through him even in the faded copy of the picture.

 

_Sherlock._

 

He must have said the name out loud, or coughed it at least. Jim's fingers relax fractionally, and he chuckles and pats the side of his cheek like he is a pet that needs to be rewarded. He cringes away from the touch, recalling how soft Sherlock's hands had been last time they did the exact same thing. John wanted to vomit.

“Very good.” He purrs, eyes narrowing fractionally. He then releases his hold on the teen, and John is not surprised that his legs give way, sliding to the floor so that it take everything he has not to black out. He coughs hoarsely, his vision pounding in and out of darkness, tinged with red from both blood loss from his head wound and strangulation. There would be bruises around his throat in the perfect shape of a hand-print when he recovered from this.

_If he recovered...._

 

But that is a bad thought, and he immediately banishes it. He trusts Sherlock. He will not let himself be toyed with on that deep of a psychological level. Fighting the instinct to cower, John lifts his gaze to meet the madman's coolly, tongue running over his teeth with the effort it takes to stay alert. Jim seems to see his struggle, and it makes him maliciously happy.

 

“Oh? Sleepy Johnny-boy? Sherlock always lulled himself into dreamland with this little macabre tale. It was one of his favourites after all. He so did enjoy telling me it, when we were kids.....”

 

He laughs, and the sound is low and cruel.

 

“I think it's because his Mother told him it, and she was oh so _sick_ all the time. Barely human at all, a ghost in her own right.... We spent an entire summer here, trying to summon the Lady Of The Lake. In some ways, I think he hoped that if it worked he could talk to his darling Mummy after she passed on.”

 

He said the last part with a smirk, and before John could help himself he was lunging for the man's neck, only to be struck down by the Asian's precise kick to his groin. Jim snickered at his pain as he curled in on himself, and his voice is right by his ear and breathing heavily.

 

“Victor would just love to see this. Unfortunately he's entertaining a guest. One you know very well Mr. Watson.”

 

Then his voice is a whisper, a promise of pain.

“Do you know _why_ I saved you for last? Why I gave you so many _chances_ to just walk away?”

 

John doesn't answer, he's too busy trying to picture Sherlock's mind in his face. Trying to imagine what the Detective's expression might be if he saw him being so weak. Mocking probably. Disdainful. He would be telling the blonde teen to stop being a baby and fight back. Cor, he tried.

But his limbs wouldn't hold him.

His limp trembled in agony.

Above him Jim's voice carries on lightly, and he knows the blackness is coming. Claiming him again. John's eyes slide closed, and against his will his body turns slack. The last thing he feels is Moriarty hoisting him up by his bonds, tossing him to the guard at his side like a sack of potatoes.

 

“I gave you those chances so _you_ could destroy him. So that only _you_ were to blame and he'd come crawling back to _me._ Yet you are stupidly, unendingly _loyal_ to the last breath it seems, and I have a business to run. _Goodbye_ John Watson. Let's hope this is our _last_ encounter with each other, eh?”

 

Then the man's phone rings, the tone of _Stayin' Alive_ drowning John deeper than sleep.

 

****

“He's becoming a Consulting Criminal.”

 

Sherlock explains detachedly to Kyousuke, hands folded in placid relaxation even as inside he is burning for action. The night falls around them even as the police car speeds down the road, sirens wailing plaintively to get the other vehicles to move. Their direction is Cardiff.

“It all makes sense now. Mycroft's people have been on his tail now for months, but only recently did his plans come to a head and he gained his first customer. The murdering of the high-up official awhile ago. It was related to the Black Lotus gang, they wanted him dead and had Jim work out the mechanics of it. Except Irene's phone had information that could compromise his promising career. Which is why he is targeting Mycroft, because he's the only one to have read all of its' contents. The bomb is a safety, because the meeting today was to discuss Moriarty's imprisonment. Not that my idiot brother actually bothered to _tell_ me. What's more John's kidnap is the only part of the Game that relates to me, which is why he hasn't bothered to let go of the bomb threat because in his mind it's not cheating. _Genius_ really, tying me down and distracting me with two problems so I wouldn't notice how each and every clue had to do with fairy tales, something I abhorred as a child. He was hinting at the final story the entire time, each tale having an element to it that relates to the original tale of the woman who drowned. Red Riding Hood, lost in the woods like the woman was, Jack and Jill, falling into the well. If it had been still in use Harry and Sean would have drowned. Not to mention Harry being pregnant coincides closely to one version of the tale which speaks of the woman running away because she carried the other man's child. And finally, John's past.”

 

He closes his eyes then, fury burning at the edges of his gut. Threatening to make the wolf come out in Sherlock and have him lose his train of thought. The pause is only brief, but Lestrade looks at him sharply from the passenger's seat, wary for any attempts at having their speed doubled to dangerous levels. However the Detective carries on as if he hadn't hesitated at all.

 

“John has an abusive Father. A key point in the tale. The Father in the story always either drives the girl out onto the lake, or he catches her and drags her physically onto the ice, in that version both of them succumb to drowning.”

 

He bites on one thumbnail, eyebrows narrowing then. Because if his suspicions are right (and of course they are) he might have to flay Moriarty alive. Skin him and make him into shoes. Just like he had threatened him as a child all those years ago. Greg's voice is tight, coiled into a knot of worry.

 

“Sherlock.... What is it?”

 

“.....Has Hamish Andrew Watson shown up for any of his court meetings?”

 

Kyousuke, hands tightening on the wheel, feels his stomach clench. The Head Officer's voice is tight, half-apologetic and half-furious.

“Your brother told me not to tell you. Said you would overreact..... He's been missing for a few months now.....”

 

He mumbles finally, to which Greg swears loudly and mutters something about hanging his boyfriend when he got his hands on him. Sherlock feels himself go cold inside, icy murder tingeing everything blue. He feels his hands curl into fists, and when Greg looks into those eyes, he sees a starless night. There is no compassion, no mercy, only cold, hard death.

He stifles a shiver, suddenly seeing an echo of Mycroft in a very un-Mycroft-like face.

It sends both fear and worry and sadness running through his spine, so abruptly he has to look away and out into the city, blinking away the wetness that threatens the corner of his eyes.

He swears if My doesn't come out of this, he'd never rest until Jim was found.

Swears it on his life, despite how cliché that sounded.

He's not sure if time has stopped, sped up or slowed down, but it feels like in the darkness of the car there is a heaviness that seems to defy reality. A weight that held him pinned to his chair.

He means every single word.

 

****

“ _What happened to the Woman's lover Mummy?”_

 

_Sherlock asked, seated in front of the fire in front of Jim's sleeping form. The two boys, having made marshmallows and roasted them in the fireplace, now were both sticky with sugary sweetness and appeased. His Mother sat in her favourite rocker, blanket curled about her even as she knit together the beginnings of a scarf for Winter, though it was a long time away. She was making lots of things for the future lately it seemed. Sherlock knows it's because she is sick._

_But the fact that she is dying doesn't click for him. His childish brain refuses to connect it together, like two puzzle pieces locked in separate boxes of his mind. He curls his knees to his chest questioningly, green eyes bright and round. Smiling, his Mother sets down her work to look at him curiously._

 

“ _Sherlock, who are you talking about?”_

 

“ _The Woman. In the story. The one you told before. What happened to her lover, after she drowned?”_

 

_His Mother's hands curl for a second in her lap, her mouth tugging upwards in an exasperated little smile as she marvelled at the analyzing tone her little boy used. The hunger for knowledge of more sparked in his eyes, and she knew somewhere inside of herself that she really should not be encouraging the love for such a tale, what with its' dark twists and turns. However Sherlock looks so small and deceptively innocent in the firelight that she cannot help but indulge him, pulling on the memories of her Grandmother telling her the same tale, weaving it effortlessly in the air like silken threads of a spider's web._

 

“ _No one knows exactly. It is such an old legend..... Some say he killed himself, tying rocks to his ankles and jumping into the same lake to be with her. To share her fate.”_

 

_The boy in front of her scowls, as if the answer is not satisfactory._

“ _That's stupid. Why would he die just because she was no longer around? What logic is in that?”_

 

_She regards her son carefully, eyes glinting softly in the firelight. She thinks of the unknowing wisdom in Sherlock's words, rocking gently in her chair as her long fingers drum against the wooden armrest. From years of playing piano. Her son sees the certain haunted look in her features, and thinks of his own Father. He cannot imagine Mummy doing something so foolish. Still, he grips the edges of his blanket a little tighter, frowning._

 

“ _I never liked that version much either truthfully.”_

_She says finally, laughing slightly. Sherlock relaxes at the warm sound, allowing his own small grin to quirk upwards._

 

“ _What's the other version then?”_

 

“ _She comes to him. Appears on the lake as a ghost to his row boat. Takes his hand. Even in death they cannot part. The woman holds him and both disappear beneath the waves, together living in the dark waters and building a home at the bottom of the lake, since she cannot leave the place of her death except for once a year on the full moon.”_

 

_The boy looks at his knees, thinking. Tracing the marks on his shins and considers the ending of the tale. Of course even he knows that the end is impossible, and that it was probably made in attempt to soften the more bitter, older completion of the story. Still, he can't help but feel like it is more right somehow. Like magic however improbable was a fairer alternative._

 

_He falls asleep, feeling like perhaps hope, even false hope was better than nothing._

_Many years would pass, and it would be a long time until Sherlock remembered that hazy night. When he would, he'd be in the back seat of a police car, hands folded in front of his face._

_He would hate its' recollection as much as he would cling to it, storing it away in his Mind-Palace. Giving him false hope even as they pulled up to the edge of the woods that would lead them to his final test._

_Five hours spent._

 

****

John felt the prick of the needle pressing into the base of his neck. Hot and painful he jerks away from it, growling slightly as someone held him in place. The red liquid is forced into his bloodstream, sending electricity humming through his limbs and filling his veins with a potent cocktail of Jim's _H.O.U.N.D_ drug. Smirking, Moriarty relished it even as he got a text from Seb, letting him know how Sherlock was doing.

 

_He's almost at your doorstep. Time to put your plan in action- SM_

 

Hauling John up to his feet, he calls into the empty, lonely house.

“Victor? Is our guest good and ready for some action?”

 

The blonde teen smiled lazily as he pulled along a shaking Hamish Andrew Watson, helpfully drugged up on another strain of the hallucinatory drug, something to make him aggressive and unpredictable. He was trembling like a loose cannon, and he all but lunged at John's only semi-conscious form, lips curling up in an animalistic snarl. His blue eyes were dilated and bloodshot. He was held back only by the Asian man, who expertly flipped him and pinned him to the floor where he lay snarling and frothing at the mouth. Jim's smile is wide as he knelt before the man, eyes narrowing.

“Patience dear. You'll get your chance. Just a little longer, just have to let him wake up then you can chase him all over the damn woods on your own. If you kill him, even better!”

 

He grins brightly, patting the top of the man's head like a prize dog. The man growls like one, all sanity gone with the throes of the drug. Woozily, John recognizes the outline of the figure beside him. He whimpers lowly, breath coming haggard in the back of his throat as he sways on his knees.

_Sherlock._

 

He thinks, and is surprised when Jim chuckles. Must of said it out loud then. He hates that, because he's sure his voice is trembling. Maybe it's the drug, but John's heart is scarcely able to keep itself from pounding apart in his chest, tearing at him furiously even as the man that was once his Father tries again to leap for him.

To kill and to maim.

To murder.

In his mind, he is once again the small boy running for his life. Except now the nightmares stir uneasily as he comes to realize that if his Father catches him, the law will no longer still his hand from dealing that finishing blow.

Like a fox let out of his cage only to be chased after by men bent on skinning him alive, he would have no choice but to run into the darkness of the woods.

Compelled, forced to move to his own demise.

Forcing Sherlock's hand as well.


	65. The Endgame Part 4~ Checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so my dear readers, this is the end of The Endgame! I hope you all enjoyed, because there is an epilogue and then THIS part of Sherlock and John's lives is done! complete! finished! :3 Let me just say I really appreciated everyone who stuck with this tale for so long and loved it as much as I did. Also to those who scared me and coaxed me into writing faster! :P  
> Thanks so, so much! I actually adore each and every one of you! and as promised, there will be more to this AU verse :) even if this chapter is complete <3

 

 

Mycroft spat blood when the fist came around again, striking the side of his cheek and sending the metal enforcements biting into the bones of his jaw. Bruising. Making them groan and his teeth grit in pain as his chair rocked backwards, ties holding him to the chair and making it wobble uneasily and threaten to topple with him in it to the floor. At the last second it rights itself, much to the woman's amusement as she shakes the kinks out of her wrist, and the ice man once again stares at her impassively, seemingly deaf to the whimpers and mutterings of his business partners on the floor. They cower, the whole lot of them. Even though many of them are much older than Mycroft. They flinch at the smallest of movements.

Shudder away from the gun pointed at them.

Wince when he is hit.

Cry out when one of the Black Lotus members unabashedly teases a young intern by the name of Margaret, making crass jokes that would probably make a sailor blush.

All a scare tactic.

Mycroft can see through it all, even though his head is spinning and he is sure that his new Westwood suit has become ruined by blood. Certainly he can taste enough of it as he runs his tongue over his teeth, checking for injuries almost lazily.

 

The young man for a moment can't help but wonder at that moment if this is how Sherlock feels, when he looks at the human race as a whole.

When reduced to their life being risked, they crumbled like infants in their cradles. If so then Mycroft perhaps understood a little better why he treated everyone like idiots all the time.

Not that he himself didn't treat most people as beneath him.

But that was more because usually they actually _were._

In rank if nothing else.

 

He is snapped from his thoughts by the woman's voice. It purrs softly as she stalks about the chair she's strapped him to, as if she thinks he would actually _do_ anything with around thirty hostages of high-raking officials at gunpoint.

_Pointless._

 

“Tell me Mr. Holmes, do you know _why_ our Shan has allied themselves with Mr. Moriarty?”

 

She strokes the edge of her bruising weapon thoughtfully, smiling as the man before her was silent as stone. To an untrained eye, Mycroft looked almost bored. His figure though pained was relaxed, almost completely pressed into the back of his chair, and his feet did not jiggle restlessly or shift in fear. Even his face was impassive, lips turned in neither a smile nor a sneer of contempt. If it weren't for the blood trickling down from a gash in his forehead in a steadily sluggish river as well as for the fact that his eyes never left her prowling form, she might have fallen for it as well. The bruise already flowering up along the pale skin of his jaw, it stands in stark contrast with the flaming blue of those irises. Still very much alert, despite the haze of pain well-masked under the shield of ice. When it's obvious he won't deign her answer with a reply she smacks him again, her fist whipping around to crunch against his cheek loudly in the silence. For a moment Mycroft sees white.

 

“We couldn't get to the official on our own. A smuggler gone wild, selling our goods to America. Yet he was so _powerful_ even the Black Lotus couldn't bring him down. He thought himself immortal, much like you probably do Mr Holmes....”

 

She smiles then, baring her teeth in his face. Her breath is hot and vaguely scented with perfume that Mycroft knows to be of Oriental make and highly expensive. His eyes narrow fractionally as he takes in the swathe of dark hair trailing down her back. Still he says nothing, so she merely continues as he truly is a captive audience.

“People who climb to high up Mr. Holmes must always Fall. Moriarty knows this, The Spider. He wants to ensure that he as so many threads that even if he falls, he will _never_ die. Our Shan shares his ambition, and respects his power. We offered our services in exchange for the official's life.”

 

Her gaze flicked to the elder Holmes, and then her hand reached out. He braced himself for another lashing, but it merely gripped the back of his chair behind his head, her knee bracing itself between his legs against the seat as she tilted him slowly backwards. The brass knuckles brush the side of his cheek, and this time Mycroft has to grit his teeth to keep from giving anything away. Because she is stroking the part of the jaw that she broke only a second before. Still, it seems a tiny shred of his agony flashes across his features, because her grin widens and she forcefully grips his chin, tilting it towards her.

“So very young to hold so much power..... I see the hunger for more in your eyes. How many other people have you trampled over to achieve this level of greatness hmm? Does it haunt you sometimes Mr. Holmes? Do you wonder sometimes what rich men like you _do_ to the poor in other countries?”

 

Her tone lowered a notch, and Mycroft saw her past written in the calluses on her hands. On the scars hidden well under her clothes. In the perfume she so gently wore about her neck like a precious copse of jewels she prided in.

 

One of the children left to starve on the streets of China. From the amount of anger that trembled in her limbs as she let his chair go crashing on the floor, Mycroft was willing to bet she had somehow been convinced that it was somehow the rich people's of other countries' fault.

Boring.

 

But it meant that if she took things too far and accidentally killed him, she'd probably have little to no qualms over it. Which made the government official test his restraints one more time, albeit discreetly.

They held firm.

Lying now on his side on the floor, Mycroft cursed in his head as he looked out the pallid window to the scene outside. Police cars and ambulances flared blue white and red on the streets, the moan of their sirens sounding as from another planet. Or maybe that was because of the blood rushing to his head, he really wasn't sure.

He'd had just about enough of this.

Mycroft hated legwork, and this kind of legwork especially he detested. Mostly because he abhorred physical pain. More so because Gregory always shouted at him when he got hurt like this. And though he may appear to be an “Ice Man” on the outside, Mycroft was just physically grateful in that moment that it was he and not his lover strapped to a chair and possibly facing death.

 

At that thought a small frown crosses his features.

A tired one.

He hopes John will take care of his brother, if it comes down to that. Gregory too of course, but Sherlock for all of his life had been _his_ responsibility. It felt strange, giving the title of protector over to someone other than himself. Still, if it had to by anyone, Mycroft wasn't surprised with being okay with it being John. He would be loyal in that absurdly steadfast way of his, and Sherlock would be fine. Eyes closed as he is hoisted back into a sitting position for another round of twenty questions, Mycroft doesn't notice the cinnamon-brown eye that flashes briefly behind the crack of opening from the door of the meeting room. No one does, and for that, the young woman is highly grateful.

 

****

Sherlock unbuckled his seatbelt as they pulled up to the cottage, his eyes roving over the old structure and taking in the structure where some of some of his best and worst childhood memories took place. He takes in the dilapidated roof, how the windows are fogged because they are sitting crookedly in their sills, and how the once-cheery blue paint job had dulled into a tepid and apologetic sort of grey. He hasn't been here in years, and the sight is actually mildly disconcerting. Sherlock would have thought that Mycroft would have at least kept the place up to maintain appearances, but he can see that not even his elder brother could bear to go back to the place his Mother had once loved so much.

It truly is like the spirit of the woman who drowned here so long ago still lingers somehow in the air, because the very trees seem to bend against the wind tonight, bracing themselves against it bitterly as the shutters creak and slap against the wood. There is a dead kind of silence in the air apart from the howling of the wind, breathing a ghost of a shudder down Lestrade's neck as the engine becomes silent and the three men sit there for a moment, unsure of where to go from this point.

Kyousuke would have brought more back-up, except that Sherlock had steadfastly refused it. There was no one to surround the house, no one to check for danger before the young teen went in. Yet the Chief Officer knew why the youth had chosen it to be this way. For one, he couldn't spare the men and he knew it, what with the bomb threat. For another, Moriarty had made it plain that he had wanted Sherlock to come alone. That he had brought Greg and Kyousuke along at all attested to an effort being made on his part. He sat there, crouched and poised like a panther primed to spring, the silence almost deafening as his pale hand wrapped about the door handle of the car. Lestrade's voice is low, and he grips the gun that Kyousuke loaned him with surprising ease and comfort. Mycroft had shown him how to after that one time he had been threatened, so very long ago it seemed. It felt cool and dangerous in his hands.

 

“Sherlock-”

 

But whatever it is he is going to say, he never gets a chance to say it. Because at that moment a bullet rips through the window, shattering the glass to pieces and spraying it all over the car like a thousand stingers from bees. Sherlock ducks instinctively, but he hears the sound of flesh being torn stickily apart and is immediately up again, seeing in an instant exactly what he had hoped not to see.

The head officer is clutching dazedly at his middle, eyes wide as a slow red stain smears across his clenched fingers. Tainting his lighter skin dark.

Then he looks at Sherlock, opens his mouth as if to speak, and then his eyes roll to the back of his head.

 

His sways for an instant before falling as both men for a moment gape in surprise, seeing but not quite believing the sight before them until the sound of the Officer's head striking the steering wheel jolts them both from their moment of frigid stillness. Then Lestrade is cursing, unbuckling his seatbelt and shouting at Sherlock to help him lie Kyousuke out flat on his back, his own knees becoming stained in blood as he thinks quickly and pulls his own jacket off of his shoulders, tearing it into pieces with surprising strength. Yet Sherlock is not thinking about the bleeding man, he is thinking about Greg as he lunges forward suddenly and pushes him down to the floor just as another stream of bullets shoots through the car, shattering the other windows so that the sound of the glass falling tinkles loudly underneath the thunder-like crack of the weapon firing overhead. Using his body protectively like a shield, Sherlock's mind races.

 

_A sniper._

_Probably the one that's been following him for some time now._

_Noticed it first when the first riddle had come._

_Deadly accurate, could probably get a fairly high-standing position in the military if they wanted._

 

His hands tighten into fists beneath him then, bits of glass cutting into his palm.

_Sebastian._

_Of course it's Sebastian._

 

Like he heard him think his name, the bullets suddenly stop. The car rocks for a moment longer, completely pock-marked with holes as it creaks and groans in the still silence again. For a moment Sherlock still crouches over Lestrade's form, blue-green eyes darting about, straining to hear any kind of noise. Underneath him Greg is completely silent his eyes wide as he hears his own heart thunder in his chest as he comes to realize just how close he had come to looking like Swiss cheese. There is a pause, and then strangely enough, the crackling of a megaphone.

 

Jim Moriarty's voice rings out over the surface of the lake, casual and sounding as usual amused and sadistic.

“Will the owner of a blonde _dog_ with a taste for hideous jumpers and being _stupidly_ loyal please stand up?”

 

For a moment longer Sherlock still didn't move, torn between rising and risking getting shot and his need to get to John. Then another bullet rings out, landing unerringly a centimeter's mark from Greg's leg to go through the floor of the car. The barest breath from the Detective's head.

 

“ _Now_ , if convenient.”

 

Jim laughs innocently.

 

Ignoring Greg's grip on his sleeve, Sherlock stands slowly to his feet.

 

****

Though many people do not realize it, Sherlock Holmes remembers far more than he lets on about how others treat him. He never forgets an insult tossed his way, or a sly remark made towards his person. It is in a way a protective thing, since as a child he found himself the subject to many teasing jibes and insulting slurs tossed at him. They store themselves away quietly in his Mind-Palace, and overtime they made him bitter to the world. Perhaps bitter towards himself. Despite what people often insisted to him about his looks, Sherlock did not see the appeal of someone like him. He was rude, volatile and driven, slightly vicious and didn't often care for people or company. At one time the only trade off he could offer had been his looks, which he sold to the highest bidder for money so he could drown out his own problems and ignore his insufferable brother and the aching sadness in his chest over his Mother's death. Yes, Sherlock did not forget every person who pointed out his own obvious flaws to him.

 

However he also never forgot a compliment.

A rare moment when he was deigned worthy enough by someone to be treated as _special_ or _good._ Of course he never deluded himself into thinking that's what he actually _was,_ but there were certain people in his life he found himself willing to try harder to become so for.

Mrs. Hudson was one of them.

Grudgingly, Mycroft was too.

 

And recently, spectacularly, so was John.

Which was why it pained him deep inside to unleash his inner monster in front of him. Show him how very _not good_ he was. It had already happened once, all that time ago when he had been faced with the sight of John's own Father beating the boy into the floor. Except the blonde teen had already been unconscious. He hadn't actually _seen._

Hadn't seen the way his mind had snapped into cold fury. Hadn't seen how he hadn't hesitated to fling the man down a flight of stairs without the faintest idea of mercy percolating into his mind.

 

Yet he knew John was aware of its' existence too. Because John had his own monster, locked deep away in a much more secure cage compared to Sherlock's. The Detective had only seen it once, and only to defend his sister. It is a wolf that acts like a sheep, sleeping among a herd of vegetarians without the slightest problem unless provoked.

 

Which is why Sherlock's face darkens as he sees that there is blood staining part of Jim's normally immaculate suit, because the young man's grin is far too feral to have him even poorly claim it as an accident. The Detective's fists clench, but he remains expressionless as he regards the man sitting easily on the front porch, flipping through a dusty photo album as his megaphone balances on one knee. Not looking up from the worn and yellowed pages, Jim makes a soft sort of cooing sound, holding up the photograph so Sherlock can see the image.

 

It's him as an infant. He is being held by a man that Sherlock has only seen in photographs but cannot remember clearly because time has worn the edges of his memories away. A face that is remarkably like his own, if not for the greying at the temples and the beginnings of a beard on his chin. A man that when thought of he can only remember a deep voice, strong hands and a cold demeanour. Siger Holmes.

 

“Such a lovely photograph, Father and son getting along and all. Family bonding is just _so_ important don't you agree?”

 

Without hesitation Sherlock lifts the gun he's kept hidden in the belt of his trousers, aiming it coldly at Jim's face. If he could he might have been snarling, but now all that is pinned in his features his sharp fury. The promise to violence that makes Jim lick his lips provocatively and grin.

 

“Where is he?”

His baritone rumbles, reverberating in the still evening. Jim chuckles a little, tutting softly as he closes the scrapbook and puts it almost lovingly aside.

 

“Now, now Sherlock. Your pet should be entitled to some _Father_ and _son_ bonding as well right? After all, you of all people should know what it's like to have no _family._ No one to give a damn about you.”

 

His dark eyes shine then, glittering like twin jewels. He tilts his head to the side in a reptilian stare.

“You want to know what they always used to tell me 'Lock? Back at the orphanages and homes I was sent to? They used to say 'Jim, we're your family now. Family is so important Jimmy'.” His voice darkened then, and he paced the front of the porch like a wild animal. Sherlock kept his gun aimed on the madman, his stare piercing.

“Except they wanted me to forget my old family. The one where a Mother suffering from dementia murdered her own husband and then shot herself right before her own son's eyes. Because that was the _wrong_ family to love. That was the _wrong_ memories to have. They tried to _take_ my memories from me. Bury them away so I wouldn't remember.”

 

He laughs then, and the sound is low and cackling and reverberates along the wooden cabin. Sherlock's voice is unwavering.

“She was a lunatic. She murdered a man in cold blood. Then she shot herself and died-”

 

“ _That's what people **DO!** ”_

Jim snarled, eyes flashing as Sherlock tried not to flinch away from the utter madness and animalistic hunger in those eyes. He doesn't move as Jim steps closer eyes glittering as he is seemingly unaware or uncaring of the weapon directed at his chest. He looks at Sherlock with a mixture of annoyance and disgust as he circles him, Causing the Detective to turn with him slowly.

 

“You had so much potential, even when you were little. I saw and I _knew._ Here was someone who understood, _here_ was someone who was just as _bored_ with everything as I was..... But you always had that _disgusting_ sense of justice instilled in you. I blame that _sickening_ woman you called your Mother.....Taming you so.....”

 

Sherlock doesn't react much, but his nostrils flare. He suddenly imagines what it would be like to blast Moriarty's skull apart. To have his brains splatter, some of it staining his coat. To shoot and shoot until there is nothing left but a mangled corpse to spit on. The only thing that stops him is the purpose of why he is here. Again he asks.

 

“Where is he? Tell me. Now.”

 

Jim sighs, rolling his eyes heavenwards as if dealing with an obstinate child. He comes to face Sherlock again so that they are mere inches apart, looking each other in the eyes and only separated by the muzzle of a gun. Sherlock looks at the man who had once been his friend. Once been the only idea of a friend he had ever known. He wonders how he could've been so fooled as to have seen anything other than a snake coiled around his throat. Jim's voice is a caress against his cheek.

 

“How about we bring back the old you just a little bit hmm? What are you willing to do to get John Watson back? Let's see those teeth and claws Sherlock, the desperate man we both know you really are.”

 

From his pocket, Jim pulls out something dark red and rope-like. Sherlock sees it's a leash just before it is tossed to him, Moriarty already turning away.

“You're choice Sherlock. Either bring me down or hunt for your pet before _my_ pet gets too excited and eats him whole.”

 

He lifts up his hands and holds them out to the man, a wry grin quirking his features.

“I won't fight you. But know if you refuse I won't be here by the time you save dear Johnny-boy's life. Think about it, you get me you solve everything. I become incarcerated, your brother goes free, hell I'll even throw in the life of that stupid school teacher sitting in the police car right now calling 999. But can you trade it all for John?”

 

And he smiles sweetly, cat-like mouth stretching across his face. At that exact moment in the darkness of the woods there comes a scream. It's the kind of cry that comes from no animal, but a human so terrified that they are facing the mouth of death. Sherlock's head snaps up, and he feels his heart stutter in his chest. The leash falls slack from between his fingers, and he looks once behind him at the police cruiser, so very torn.

A second scream does it, followed by a ringing gunshot. He looks to Moriarty, who grins ferally.

“Had to give Johnny some sort of advantage didn't I? I may have armed him....”

 

and with a snarl Sherlock throws the leash down at Jim's feet, lowering his weapon. He bares his teeth one last time at Moriarty, eyes glowing blue fire in the night as he utters one last promise.

 

“I _will_ kill you one day.”

 

And Jim, Consulting Criminal and King to the Underworld feels a thrill go through his spine at the complete and stark honesty within that sentence. His fingers twitch in a casual wave of goodbye.

 

“And I will burn the _heart_ out of you yet.”

 

Then the Detective is running off towards the woods, pocketing his gun in his trousers. Running faster than he ever has before. As he disappears into the darkness, Jim can't help but be reminded of the man in the photograph. The one who he had met only once, but could still remember despite the time that had stretched between that one encounter. Siger's voice, speaking to him as a child. Not buying the childish mask. Pointed and bitter.

 

“ _ **You're a twisted thing aren't you?”**_

 

And Jim's own response, when his act slipped from his features and he no longer smiled like a little boy, no longer played the part of something he wasn't. His response echoing in his head.

 

“ _ **Well....It runs in the family after all....”**_

 

****

_Run._

That was all John could think over the pounding in his head. The blood rushing in his brain. The sweat dripping down his scalp and into his eyes.

_Run._

His breath came out in sharp, startled gasps, and he cringed away from the brush that licked at his arms and legs even as he scrambled desperately through it, seeing tendril-like limbs clutching at him in the shadows of the grass that he knew weren't real.

At least... he _hoped_ they weren't.

_Doesn't matter._

 

His brain urged, the twinge in his leg reminding him that if he slowed down he would not be able to speed back up.

_Run Damn you. RUN!_

 

Swallowing a sob, John hopes dazedly that Harry is okay. When Father is angry, Harry always gets picked on. He hopes she's found a good hiding place, because he knows from the crashing of the footfalls behind him that he's not in a good mood.

_Why is he angry again?_

_Doesn't matter, keep running John!_

 

Through the pounding of his heart, he wonders vaguely how he got outside. Where he was for that matter. He did not recognize the paths before him that he took, and the wildlife wasn't the same kind as his home, at least what he could see of it under the sparse snow. His breath fogged before him as well, also muddling his view. Dark shadows seemed foreboding and monstrous as they surrounded him, and things lunged out at the teen and made him yelp, unsure and disbelieving of what he saw as his mind struggled to come up with a shape for the monsters that faded in and out of his sight. Giant dogs with snarling teeth and rolling red eyes, dragons that breathed fire that he swore he could feel heat his face, and yellow eyes that glittered and howled wolf-like in the dark. John wondered if maybe he had stumbled onto Hell. Still he feared the man behind him more. Feared the sound of the snarling thing that had his Father's shape and yet ran almost on all fours, foaming at the mouth and clawing at the air rabidly.

 

He hoped Robin was hiding too. Except Robin didn't hide. Robin was _Dead-_

Wait.

No.

No he wasn't.

Nonononononononononononononononnonono

 

_KEEP RUNNING._

 

Then his foot caught on a patch of black ice, and John's frenzied mind stuttered for a second as he was thrown to the ground, the snow cold as it went down the collar of his shirt and melted against his flushed skin. The next second there was a snarling howl, and John saw the outline of the man pausing at the clearing the teen had landed in. His Father's eyes glittered madly in the dark. John whimpered, curling into himself and trying to back away, even though his ankle screamed at him in agony when he tried to stand.

Twisted.

The wind cackled at him, and in his mind John actually heard it laughing. Mocking his situation. Wolves howled all around him, searching for blood. The vines on the forest floor twisted about his feet, gripping and tangling and holding him in place. The monster came forward slowly, like an animal poised on its' prey it circled him. John can hear the panting of his own breath, can feel the throbbing of his leg and ankle. Can hear his own sobs bursting in his chest. It takes his fingers curling around the already-tight grip of the weapon for him to register that it's even _there_ , and when John looks down dizzily and sees the gun he does the only thing he can think of.

 

He lifts it and with a scream fires just as the thing lunges at him, growling and snarling and reaching out for blood. The shot rings loud in his ears, deafening him, but it stalls the beast just in time for John to force his way up to his feet, clawing at the earth until he can stand and is once again running in the under-brush, not bothering to check if he's actually killed the man that had become a monster behind him.

 

****

Anthea only got the interview for the job because her resume included the fact that she was a black belt in not only Karate, but Judo, Kendo, Taekwondo _and_ hapkido. In truth, she was just a little bit feared among her friends and family for being so bloody active and deceptively dangerous despite her tiny stature, but as far as she was concerned it made her stronger and kept her in good shape. When she was younger, it had helped her defend herself from her brothers and reclaim her stolen toys, and when she got older deterred more than one boyfriend that simply couldn't take _no_ for an answer. She liked the feeling of punching into a punching bag, she liked doing flips and being powerful and limber. More than anything, she enjoyed the fact that she did not _look_ as dangerous as she was.

 

All of her life, she had never had a job that for once hadn't looked on her resume list and seen her talents as anything other than strange and frightening. After all most of the time she worked as a secretary, so who was she to know over fifty methods of self-defence against rape? So to be sure she had been surprised and more than a little bit suspicious when the man in the grey suit who had called himself 'Mr. Douglas' had looked over her papers and downright _smiled_ in glee.

 

“I think you'll be _exactly_ what Mr. Holmes is looking for. Please come back tomorrow and we'll have this whole thing settled, your salary included.”

 

So she had. She had worn her best pinstripe skirt and vest, combed her cinnamon-brown curls to perfection, and even worn her high heels. After all just because she fought well, didn't mean she couldn't be pretty. In fact she had just gone to reapply her lipstick in the loo when the alarms had shrieked all over the building and all hell seemed to have broken loose. She had turned just in time to see an Asian man in a uniform appear in the bathroom, holding a knife and waving it at her threateningly. So, what did a black-belt achiever in several kinds of martial arts _do_ when threatened by a strange man in a ladies' lavatory?

 

She disarmed him with a high kick with one of those striking heels, slamming the loo door closed and locking it tightly before shoving the unconscious body into a stall and tying him down with his own shirt. She later used his pants to gag him. Then she pocketed the knife and took stock of her situation.

She knew that the young Mycroft Holmes, her supposed and mysterious employer, had mentioned in his Ad that he had wanted someone able to handle _challenging_ situations. However Anthea had thought that meant jammed printers and difficult co-workers, not bloody ninjas with knives and hostage-type situations. Although in retrospect, she supposed it was her own fault that she hadn't been at least a _little_ more hesitant when the interviewer had given her such a winning smile. As she gripped the knife in her hands, she could see her own reflection in front of her. Wide eyes, fashionable heels and small five foot three stature. She could feel a small smile working her lips as she heard the distant wails of a siren outside, and she spun the weapon expertly in her hands before hiding it in the waist of her skirt.

 

Well, at least she would no longer have to push papers like some giddy _airhead_ like everyone else seemed to expect of her.

She carefully unlocked the lavatory door, checking once to make sure no enemies were in the hall. Then, slipping off her high-heels and discarding them under the sinks, she slipped as soundlessly as a mouse out to find the source of all the ruckus.

Mycroft Holmes.

 

****

Sherlock found the clearing easily. It wasn't hard, neither John nor his Father seemed to be caring about concealing their tracks. In fact Mr. Watson seemed to be going on almost all fours, so Sherlock quickly concluded that drugs were probably affecting both of their senses. His breath trailed like smoke behind him as he halted at the sight of blood, for a moment his brain shutting down at the still figure lying in the snow. For a second his eyes deceived him, and he thought the impossible.

_No._

_John!_

 

Except then he was noticing the grey in the blonde hair, and the marks of alcoholism around the eyes and fingers. As he stepped forward, he saw Hamish Andrew Watson was breathing harshly, clutching at his middle where a dark red stain seeped from a bullet wound right into his liver. Sherlock's hands tightened at his side, and he briefly considered driving his foot into the wound. Pushing at it until something broke and the man cried out, spitting up blood in his pain. Except it cooled when he saw the ragged footsteps of his partner, already gone into the clearing. They told signs of a twisted ankle, possibly broken. He didn't have time to deal with the pathetic excuse for a human being before him. Those watery-grey eyes looked up at the shadow of the tall figure before him, and he might have whimpered something. Begged for his life. Yet Sherlock wasn't feeling merciful, and his eyes glittered coldly in the dark and appeared to Mr. Watson to gleam like twin fires as he crouched once by his ear.

 

“I told you once that if you touched _either_ of your children again that I would take it upon myself to take revenge on their behalf.”

 

He raises his gun then, letting it come to rest right in the centre of the man's forehead. The man trembled, blood spilling from his mouth and reddening his teeth at he looked up at the Demon before him, all pale lines and sharp dark edges as he stared down the barrel of a gun. There is a breath in which the pathetic man that once struck terror into Sherlock's lover's heart cowers before him, curling into a ball and crying. And the Detective feels vicious satisfaction, deep and black and poignant in his chest. Then the flame flickers and dies, and his voice goes cold once again.

 

“However it appears revenge has already been taken. I wouldn't want to deprive John of getting his own sense of justice.” And he lifts the gun away, because he knows right now Mr. Watson is _suffering._ Bleeding slowly and painfully to death.

And after all, Sherlock's inner monster grinned at the thought of him slowly losing life and realizing that he was going to die. Licked its' lips at the idea of him struggling to breathe just like John had when he had wrapped his throat around his own son's neck.

Like an oncoming car, because Sherlock had already guessed and surmised about Robin, and he figured that sometimes, the best course of action was simply to let the dead have their pound of flesh.

 

And he left him in the fog.

And he didn't look back.

In the end, Hamish Andrew Watson died much the same way his youngest son had.

Alone and so very afraid.

Except no one would mourn for _his_ loss.

 

****

She managed to avoid being noticed as she ducked along the halls, partly because she was small enough to hide in places normally a full grown man wouldn't, and partly because when she _couldn't_ hide she acted small and frightened and trembling. It seemed that in at least the lower levels, people were continuing business as usual. Men and women got their papers, chatted on phones, and talked to one another. There weren't even any guards. The difference was everyone was tense. Frigid and still, and the top floors had been barricaded by two soldiers also dressed in black. Nobody dared face them as they both carried guns, but everyone shot them uneasy looks. Asking around, Anthea soon discovered why no one tried to leave. There was a bomb somewhere in the building, one that could very well be activated by opening the front doors. Nobody knew for sure of course but as a result the workers all carried on about their business, even while making calls to their loved ones and telling them the news in tense whispers. The first thing Anthea decided she needed to do was get a gun. Then to get upstairs. She soon saw a plan in the shape of the water jug in the hall of one cubicle. Quickly filling two cups she shyly put on the mask of a young girl as she stepped forward, casually stealing someone's flat shoes when they weren't looking and approaching the two guards. Her neck sweated slightly, and she quickly ran over the list of pressure points and strikes that she knew even as she came closer, offering the water with a nervous smile that would befit a captive desperately trying to win over the favour of her captors. The two guards, men and young ones at that, smiled appreciatively over her figure even while accepting the cups of water, lowering their weapons a fraction of an inch. Normally Anthea would not have dared to attack anyone armed unless she were armed properly herself, but she did not have time to panic. When the first guards' hand brushed hers, she struck out.

Kneeing him effectively in the groin, her knife came out and pressed against his throat, holding him against her as a shield in case the other guard became suddenly trigger-happy and accidentally shot.

 

“Don't _move._ ” She hissed into the man's ear, pressing the tip of the blade against his pulsing artery, and sharply barked an order to the other man who stood stunned before her.

 

“Drop your weapon or he dies.”

She says simply, and after a moment the man reluctantly lowers his gun. She gestures at him to kick it towards her, and when he does she quickly disarms the other man of his gun by knocking it out of his hands with one elbow. It clatters to the floor. Behind her there are people muttering in distress, eyeing the small woman as if she has lost her mind. In their eyes she probably has. People rarely thought about fighting _back_ when they were suppressed in these situations. Hence why nobody just mobbed the two guards in the first place.

She effectively knocked the man out in her grip, letting him slide unceremoniously to the floor as she grabbed one of the guns and roughly pistol-whipped the other. Then she took the two pistols and their holsters and clasped them about her waist, tightening the belt to its' smallest loop before tossing her hair back and sparing one look at the stunned crowd. She allowed herself a small, tight smile as a man (ex-military from the look of it, but honourably discharged) stepped up and saluted smartly, seeming to come out of his shock fast enough to realize the situation before him.

 

“Ma'am if I may take charge I'll get everyone to the bottom floors.”

 

“Good.” She said sharply, and even though she wasn't part of the army nor had she ever been she saluted back, remembering the way her own Da used to click his heels together and stand tall and straight. She respected military men deeply, and there was a kindness about this ones eyes. Perhaps if she wasn't fired after this for being so violent she might suggest to give him a raise. Or at least a medal for not being stupid and slow like the others had been. She ducks upstairs, taking each step two at a time. Behind her on the floor below people begin whispering about the woman, wondering what her name could've been.

It would be a while before her favourite name for herself became well-known throughout the office.

 

****

Eventually, John cannot run any more. There comes a time when one's body simply gives out on you, and you are brought to your knees so you crawl forward. Unable to stop. Unwilling to go on. Even though the Demons of his own mind hound him, he cannot keep himself upright. His face touches cold snow as the winter wind bites at him, numbing his pain somewhat. Though somewhere deep inside of him John knows that going numb is not a good thing at all and should be stopped. Still he revels in it, even as he drags himself forward, still trying to ignore the howling and snarling all about him. There is a faint voice, calling to him from somewhere. He's not sure where it's coming from. He follows it distantly, stumbling forward and trying to get to his feet. It almost sounds like a woman.

 

“ _John....”_

“ _Jooooooooohhhhhhhnnn....”_

 

There is a low keening noise, and it takes him a second to realize it is coming from his own mouth. The sound is high and painful in his ears, but he can't get it to stop. Just like he can't stop the tears of fear, or the shaking in every limb. He thinks he sees a light up ahead, a sort of ethereal glow that he can't pin-point. The gun shakes in his hands. As he gets closer, the glow becomes a figure, a wispy shape that forms a long train and a glittering white gown. A part of him knows that what he is seeing can't be real, but it is so _lifelike_ and _bright_ in front of him that he gapes, eyes wide, as he takes in the pale figure floating in the clearing ahead. She is beautiful, her hair a deep rich brown that cascades down snow-white skin. Skin that is too pale to be human. She floats above the ground, drifting slightly, the frayed edge of her train descending from her hair and pinned in place with a crown of dried babies' breath of soft lavender hue. Her eyes though rimmed with dark circles are a smoky and elusive blue, and her mouth is deep, deep red. Her lips part, and when she speaks it is with the same, echo-filled voice in his head.

 

“ _Jooooohhhnnn....”_

 

She holds out one delicately translucent hand to him, asking him to come closer. Beckoning him forward. John distantly, as if in a dream, wonders how she knows his name. His heavy-lidded eyes grow heavier with exhaustion as step by step he draws nearer, oblivious to the forest falling away behind him. His feet distantly acknowledge they are no longer bearing his weight on solid ground, rather something cooler. It creaks under his toes, groans vaguely. John doesn't even hear. He is fixated on the image before him, the woman in the white wedding dress and kind smile. She is laughing sweetly at him.

 

“ _John! John come here!”_

 

Almost sleepily, John grins just a little, reaching out his hand for hers. He doesn't realize that what he sees isn't actually there, and that the voice calling for him in horror is actually coming distantly from the other direction. Sherlock sees the back of his blonde head, standing on the treacherously thin ice and screams his name once more, his legs carrying him faster and faster but not fast enough.

 

“JOHN!”

 

He bellows, and frowning a little John turns, unsure suddenly if the voice is actually coming from in front of him. The next second there is an almighty _CRACK_ under his feet, and the teen sees a mop of unruly dark hair burst from the woods. Reaching for him with long, desperate fingers.

 

“Sher-”

 

_CRUNCH. CRACK-CRACK._

 

John's hand had just lifted hesitantly in the Detective's direction, bleary from drug and confused, and then he was gone. Freezing cold water swallowing his figure whole.

Sherlock felt his heart stop in his chest.

****

Very little surprises Mycroft Holmes any more. Having a younger brother like Sherlock, always up to something new and exciting and slightly dangerous, ensured that without a doubt. In fact it made the elder Holmes unfazed by explosions, indifferent to poisons, and downright _bored_ by hostage situations and kidnappings so long as they did not affect himself or the few people he chose to care for. Yet, there were a few things, rare things that he could tick off on one hand, that served to leave him dumbfounded.

 

The first had been when Gregory had decided to love him.

Had chosen _him_ out of all the other billions of people on the planet, embraced him and called him his own. Loved him because he was different, because he acted in a way that did not conform with society. Cherished him despite his cold manner, and willingness to keep secrets, and obsessive behaviours. Delighted in speaking with him. Yes, the teacher had managed to leave him utterly gob-smacked, breathless and voiceless. It sprang on him sometimes in the rarest of moments, leaving Mycroft utterly dazed and confused and just plain _aroused_ , sometimes uncomfortably so for the man. To be _wanted_ so completely and thoroughly.

 

The second was when John had arrived and done the same for his brother.

Seen the things that before only Mycroft had loved about Sherlock, his vulnerability and his intelligence, how deeply he _cared_ , in some ways more than most people about his passions and dreams.

 

And the third, was when a five-foot three inch woman came bursting into the middle of a hostage situation bearing a gun and a snarl, pointing it unwaveringly towards his skull. The doors slammed in their hinges behind her, and with a sweet smile and a glare she said in a perfectly cold voice

 

“Drop your weapons or I'll kill him and no one will get the information.”

 

And she undid the safety of the gun with a loud _click_ to drive her point home.

Yes, Mycroft Holmes was definitely dumbfounded that day. Especially when the members of the Black Lotus Gang did indeed drop their weapons like hot coals, their hands in the air as she walked over and kicked them all safely out of their reach. But what shocked Mycroft more than anything was when the woman knelt to untie his bonds after having the other business men and woman guard the five members on the floor, looked him dead in the eye and said without any hint of sarcasm

“You _better_ let me have the job after all of this.”

****

Ice.

So cold.

Frozen.

It stopped John's thoughts in his head, all ideas about swimming to the surface ending with that one word.

Ice.

His limbs seized with it, his lungs burned with it, and when he opened his mouth and gasped his tongue _tasted_ it.

Then he choked.

Ice.

 

Underwater, his blonde hair floated free from gravity, glowing in the water as he opened his eyes. It burned. He couldn't tell in the darkness which way was up and which way was down. He kicked experimentally, and met unyielding hardness. He had moved in his struggles, and wound up underneath a more frozen part of the lake. Here it was immovable, unbreakable still. John couldn't breathe. His chest screamed for oxygen.

All that was given to it was ice.

Ice and water that made it hurt.

 

Yet John couldn't help himself. He gasped spasmodically, chest quivering with a need for air. His limbs flailed desperately, and his mind screamed for help.

_Sherlock!_

 

Hadn't he been there? He wasn't sure. John's vision was beginning to tint black at the edges. He wasn't sure _what_ had been real or fake, or _what_ had actually happened. It didn't seem to matter much, given the fact that he was drowning. With that thought he relaxed a little bit, mind fading into the dark.

Yes.

Drowning.

…..It didn't hurt as much now.....

 

He felt his lungs relax inside him.

His vision went dark.

_Sherlock....._

It felt like going to sleep really.

John hoped that when he dreamed, he would at least see that pale face. Be able to tell him how much he loved him.

 

He slips into the dark just as his numb wrist feels a hand clap around it blindly.

 

John dreams of starry eyes and bowed lips, pressing life into his own. Forcing oxygen into him and water from his chattering blue mouth. He dreams of hands pressing on his chest-

_Hurts-_

 

and a hoarse voice screaming at him to wake up. But it's all so very far away.

So John drifts.

Dreaming happily of that face, even if strangely enough in his dreams that face is twisted in sorrow, crying over his body and begging. Which Sherlock never did.

 

_Please John!_

_Please wake up!_

_Please...._

 

Yes. Those irises must be filled with falling stars. Swirling constellations. Entire galaxies painted in their depths.

Not tears.

Most definitely not tears....

and John, oh so tired, mistakes the scream of police sirens in the distance for the shriek of asteroids falling back to Earth.


	66. Epilogue of sweetly sad feels and mild smut....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this is the end.  
> Yep....
> 
> I feel like I should say something really profound but I'm suddenly overcome with the need to just bow and worship the ground my readers walk on. Thank you all so much.  
> Seriously. It ended up sadder, but also fluffier than I expected. I know that makes no sense but trust me.
> 
> This end is for all of you.  
> <3

 

 

“I hate you.”

 

“Then why are you hiding a box of biscuits that you bought me as a present behind your back?”

 

“I don't even want to know how you knew that's what they were. I _wrapped_ it for Christ''s sake.”

 

“Gregory, you should know by now that in order for a present to be _surprise_ , one must make an effort of hiding the _receipt_ somewhere other than their front coat pocket.”

 

“And _you_ should know snooping in my pockets when I'm not looking is downright stubborn and stupid. Just _ask_ me next time, honestly. We _are_ dating after all.”

 

“And _where_ is the fun in that?”

 

Greg smiled slightly through his scowl at Mycroft, despite the pain that was held in his eyes as he took in the young man lying pale and decidedly bruised in a hospital bed. Even though he had managed to stay angry at him for the past week and a half, he could feel the last vestiges of his fury beginning to die. Perhaps that was why he merely tossed the biscuits over onto the foot of his bed with a sigh, seating himself in the hard plastic chair before running a hand along his head. Brushing back the silver locks of hair. His eyes rove over Mycroft's figure once more, cataloguing every injury, wincing at each bruise and cut. Fuck, it looked painful. Especially the one lining his jaw. Then teacher's hands tighten into fists against his knees, and he doesn't realize he's been staring fixedly at the purple-yellow bruise until his love gently calls him back to reality.

 

“....Gregory....?”

 

He says gently, and Lestrade snapped back to himself with a small apologetic sound at the back of his throat. Mycroft sighed irritably, rolling over in the probably expensive hospital bed to reach for his notebook. It was where he kept most of his business meetings, at least the ones he didn't deem important enough to keep a secret, and as well it held names of various important people that he should keep an eye on and names of people who were eyeing him. However he soon frowned as he came up empty-handed and turned to glare at Greg, who had started to stare at his shoes innocently and fiddle with his phone.

 

“Where did you put it?”

“You need rest.”

 

Is all Lestrade says, and he states it in the firm kind of way that Mycroft knows means he won't tell him even if he threatens him with his position in the Government. He tries anyway, halfheartedly.

 

“I could have you arrested you know for stealing that.”

 

“Only if you never wanted to share a bed with me again.”

 

“You don't mean that.”

 

“Neither do you.”

 

And Greg's jaw clenches slightly, because Mycroft can't stifle the small wince as he shifts back against his pillows, his face paling. Because the fact is right now Greg can't look at him now, stripped of his suit and tie and crisp clothes and see anything other than how _young_ he looks.Or how tired his features are. Though Mycroft's parents have been dead or gone for years now, Greg can't help but wonder what they would say to him if they knew he had been such a failure at keeping their son free from harm. It wasn't the fact that he was older exactly that made Lestrade protective of Mycroft, although that played a part. It was the fact that usually My didn't _need_ protection. He was aloof and icy to the rest of the world, and Greg loved him for it because it meant normally his worries were unfounded or silly. Even though his partner had one of the most dangerous jobs in the world, he could quite possibly be considered one of the most dangerous _people_ anyone had ever had the chance to encounter.

 

So when things went wrong, they turned for the worse. Sharply. The doctors had brought My in only a few weeks ago, and the few times Greg had drifted off to sleep either in the Waiting Room or at his bedside he was jolted awake by the image he had witness of the young man being rolled into the hospital. Though most of his injuries had only been serious and not life-threatening, there had been some internal bleeding in Mycroft's stomach area from where one of Moriarty's goons had punched him with brass knuckles. Greg could remember shouting My's name across the hospital room, and being held back by several nurses and hospital staff when he refused to wait outside. There had been so much blood, that really he had lost a part of his mind when he saw it. Of course it had looked much, much worse than it actually had been.

 

Several hours later he had been allowed to visit him, but My had only woken up the next day. Greg had been patient, he waited until he was at least able to eat solid food before he told him what an stupid little shit he had been for underestimating Moriarty and nearly getting himself killed.

 

To his credit, Mycroft had taken it without much protestation.

 

Greg had continued it too, until he realized that Mycroft wasn't fighting it and felt like he deserved every word. Then he had become silent, torn between cussing the man out and embracing him like he was afraid he would turn into ash before his eyes. As it was the young man merely sighed and rubbed at his eyes irritably at the gestures of worry, as if he loathed to be coddled. Which he probably did. He was after all, much more used to coddling others.

 

The thought gives Greg a rare smile, one that Mycroft notices with a raising of tired eyebrows.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Nothing....” The teacher laughs.

“It' just.... for a change I'm taking care of you instead of you taking care of me.....”

 

Mycroft's words are soft as he looks into his hands, seeing something else entirely as he speaks. The words come out stiffly and awkwardly, but their lowered tone is sincere. Small.

“I am.... I apologize.... for letting it get to the situation it did.....”

 

Greg looks at him for a second, wanting to keep his anger. But his partner looks in that moment so bruised and tired that with a sigh he lets it go, standing and leaning forward to brush his lips gently against Mycroft's. Minding his healing jaw. The kiss is chaste and over too soon, but he doesn't dare do anything else. Not with the man looking so much like a bruised and battered boy.

Later the man would come back to Mycroft's eyes, turn him into crystal ice and shut out most of the world. But between the two of them, only a breath apart, he allows himself to grip Greg's sleeve and close his eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath of thanks for his own life.

 

And for the life ahead of him, as he drags the teacher down to let their lips meet again.

 

****

Summer stands outside the hospital room again, her hands clenching and unclenching silently. Her head bowed. Around her, medical officials shuffled back and forth down the halls, creating an easy rhythm in her ears that contrasted starkly with her pounding heart. She felt like her cheeks were probably flushed, but from fury or timidness, she wasn't sure. It wasn't very often that Summer could recall being terrified. Yet over the past couple of weeks, terror seemed to make itself known. Rear it's gaping maw and leave her on her knees, screaming. She now knew fear, and it had a name.

A whispered title.

 

Moriarty had won in that sense at least.

 

As a result, fear did not sit with her gracefully. Caused her to pace, to shift uneasily, to cuss lowly and to wish she were anywhere else. Yet she was not a coward. Her pride insisted that she raise her fist, knock on the door to the hospital room she stood in front of. Face her fears. But she didn't want to, because every time she saw that face in her mind her chest squeezed painfully and angry tears threatened to burn behind her eyelids. She had grown up surrounded by military men and women, had been raised to follow the whistle, to run laps and not care if her chest was on fire or that she was slower than everyone else because her legs weren't as long. She had learned to arm a gun before she had learned how to bake, and could climb trees better than any boy on her street by the time she was ten years old. She learned to take orders, but to _think_ as well. Use her head.

To not let things overwhelm her.

Breathe.

_Four four four._

 

Yet here she was, reduced to a snivelling little school girl because of heartbreak. It sickened her.

She drew a breath inwards then, straightening her shoulders. Tightening her fingers in resolution.

 

Summer gritted her teeth, raising her hand to rap sharply on the door.

Except it opened before she got the chance to.

 

Irene limped into the doorway, looking as if she was going to go to the cafeteria to get something to eat. However she froze when she saw the petite figure before her, pale face if possible turning paler. Her lips parted in a small inhalation of breath, but she didn't say anything as her hands clenched the frame of the door. Summer didn't notice any of that though, what she noticed was the tubes wrapped around one pale wrist. The marks of lack of sleep, dark purple bruises under her bright blue eyes. How thin she is, hidden underneath the hospital gown draped about her. Hidden by another layer of her jacket but not completely disguised. Her hair, once vibrant red now seems sallow under the hospital lights, and there are definite smudge marks that indicate tears have been shed. Though her jaw tightens and she lifts her chin bravely, Summer can still see the frailness in her trembling lip. She probably intends her voice to be biting when she speaks, but it just comes out tired and flat.

Lost and hollow like a balloon with no helium left in it.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Instead of answering, Summer reaches out to touch the IV pole that's being dragged alone behind her, checking to see the drip is still attached properly to her wrist. Her fingers are light and tentative, but Irene draws away from them like she is recoiling from a viper. She takes a step backwards, but winces and grips her chest in muted pain that she tries not to let show on her face. Immediately Summer forgets some of her anger, eyebrows lowering in concern.

“Hey, are you supposed to even be up? What's wrong-”

 

“ _Don't._ ”

 

She snaps, forcing herself not to tremble even though her damn legs are weaker than a newborn deer's. Irene looks slightly wild, her hair in disarray and her eyes piercing and bright. However there is a vulnerability there too, something that Summer sees and is a little shocked by. Usually, Irene is not one to look afraid. Or wounded. Yet her eyes are too bright like they are hiding fresh tears, and though she is still she stands coiled as if braced for an impact. Even though Summer is smaller, she seems to be the taller of the two given the fact that Irene has curled slightly in herself.

Slowly, the blonde teen lowers her hand.

Coming back to the reality that told her she was supposed to be angry, not forgiving.

Her voice is carefully emotionless.

 

“Interesting reaction to someone who's inquiring about your welfare.”

 

She has the decency to flush darkly, twin points of colour on her cheeks stark against the grey of her complexion. Her voice is low as she looks down and away at her bare feet.

“You don't have to check on me. Not if.....”

 

And she trails off, eyelashes lowering unhappily. Summer snorts, and the noise is unimpressed and hard.

“ _Not if_ what? You think that just because I'm angry at you I don't care that you nearly _died_?”

Irene's voice is quiet. Tiny and minuscule in her throat.

“Are you?”

 

“Am I what?”

 

“Angry.”

She murmurs softly, and Summer sighs sharply through her nose, pinching at the bridge between her eyes tiredly.

“Of _course_ I am. You _lied_ to me.”

 

“Then why?””

Irene looks at her then, gaze piercing and searching in confusion. Her dark hair hangs so that it covers one half of her face just slightly, but she tucks it back confidently as her face smooths back into careful calculation. A mask put upon from years of finesse and hiding true emotions. Her voice is crisp, even if her words are messy. In the end, she will always try to gain control, even if it's just the conversation. At one time, Summer admired her for this.

 

“Why do you still care? After all I've done to you....”

 

Summer's eyebrows lower in disbelief.

“You are.... were my girlfriend-”

 

“ _You nearly died.”_

 

Summer blinks, and something inside of her chest clicks. Her shoulders nearly sag forward in relief and he lets out a small laugh, one that cracks and trembles slightly breathlessly. Irene eyes her warily, like one might look at someone who's become slightly unhinged. She startles when Summer's hands suddenly reach out, shoving her lightly but firmly back into the hospital room. She stumbles, but a freckled hand steadies her and pulls her down suddenly so that the two are eye-level, staring at each other with flaming intensity as the elfin girl glares. For one moment, their lips almost meet, and neither girl is entirely sure if it's what they want, or what they need. Their breath pants heavily on each other's cheeks, ghosting between them and exchanging energy that coils in their blood and leaves a tingling sensation all down Irene's spine. But Summer's not about to just give in, because she's been hurt before now, and the pain in her chest is enough to provide caution so she won't be so naïve again. Drawing away, her voice is deathly quiet as she releases the fabric of the other girls' coat, fingers untwisting stiffly.

“You idiot. You nearly died too. You don't get to play knight in shining armour right now.”

 

Irene's teeth grit, and her hands curl into fists at her sides.

“I'm not. It was because of _me_ that he went after you! If I had just stepped away, if I had just given in Moriarty-”

 

“Don't say his damn name. He killed an Officer of the law and nearly killed my best friend! He kidnapped me and you, and _threatened_ you. That bastard does not get to have his name on your lips! Don't tell me he wouldn't have tried to kill you anyway!”

 

Summer snarls, ending Irene's protests and strangely defending her even though a part of her was shouting.

_Liar! You betrayed everyone! Every single person who liked you! I trusted you!_

 

The teen before her blinks, obviously just as confused and angry. Her blue eyes flash as she sighs, turning to look uneasily at the hospital room around them. With the door having been closed, it was dark. No lights were turned on and it made the white walls look ashen and grey and washed out. Even the curtains are drawn on the windows, and Irene's irises glint softly as she grips her I.V pole, tugging it lightly as she turned towards her bed. Her voice is low and cool again, the fires being doused by Summer's inferno. She can't get good and properly angry, not when the girl before her is actually in front of her. Irene's original plan was to shout, to scream and get her to leave and never come back. But from the set of the girl's shoulders, she knew all that would happen is that she would shout right back. Making up her mind about the pointlessness of arguing, she gestured towards the bed with one pale hand.

“Fine then. Let's sit and talk.”

 

Summer, despite her scowl, managed small and broken smile.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

A glimmer of a new beginning, amongst bruised relations and battered trust.

Because wounds only healed when they were addressed, and both had been avoiding tending to their scars for long enough.

She took up the offer with a tiny, smouldering flame of hope to come.

 

****

“Shh, Robin. No more crying now, I'm here love....”

 

Harry gently soothed the tiny bundle in her arms, smiling at the red and agitated colour her baby's cheeks had become upon being woken from her nap. Robin Guinivere Watson, having been let out of intensive care after almost a month, glared up resentfully at her Mother, snuffling and thrashing in her light blue blanket in protestation at being taken out of her crib. Normally Harry would have let the babe just sleep, but today was the day that she could finally leave the hospital. The thought made her grip tighten on the squirming body in her arms, smiling slightly as she leaned in and planted a soft kiss on the crown of blonde curls peeking out from under the blanket. That settled Robin a little bit, she scrunched up her pink little nose and gurgled disapprovingly, but didn't offer much more complaint. The rocking chair that a nurse had given her creaked slightly as she let herself lean back and forth into an easy rhythm, and even though she was crap at singing she tried a soft lullaby. Very Irish, since her Mum came from Dublin and hadn't been lucid enough most of the time to sing anything too complicated. Still she found small warmth in it.

 

_Tura lura lura....Tura lura lie....._

 

As she sang, she thought about her little brother, worried over him. He had been admitted into hospital since the 'Cabin Incident' which was what it was being dubbed amongst everyone. After swallowing the lake in his lungs and hacking it back up, he had been dragged to Emergency Care, suffering from a drug-induced haze and screaming from hallucinations. It had been the same stuff that had been given to Irene, and it had the same heart-attack type effects in the aftermath. Sherlock hadn't been himself since, pacing restlessly and tearing at his hair, snapping at anyone who tried to offer him even a shred of pity. He only accepted coffee as a sort of peace offering, black as the man's soul itself, and frequently Harry had been the one to offer it to him. They had spent many long hours, sitting side by side. Neither feeling the need to communicate their emotions to the other, used to companionable silence that came with both understanding that the other did not wish to speak. She was told about her Father by him, and in grim satisfaction Harry had merely nodded. Her sentiments towards his death needn't be spoken aloud. However she worried how John would respond when he woke. She was also told about Kyousuke, and quietly she had allowed a few tears to fall alone in the darkness of her room later on. Though she hadn't known the man well, it was obvious Sherlock was having a hard time. He didn't speak the man's name more than once, and when he did he had gone pale and the coffee in his hands had trembled. Kyousuke had been the first officer to give him a chance, to look past the drug addicted teen and see the brilliant mind underneath. To allow him to use it for good.

His mourning, even if it was not typical, was natural.

 

Others came and went, Lestrade getting to meet Robin, then Mycroft. The silver-haired teacher had been good for the babe, he had been able to bounce her lightly on his knee and she had giggled and grinned widely at him. However the elder Holmes had looked supremely uncomfortable with the whole situation, staring pensively at the baby who looked back at him with the same unblinking stare. Then Robin had promptly made a grab for the end of his umbrella, and he had hastily given Harry's daughter back to her.

 

_Daughter._

Now there was a word she was so unused to using, at least in connotation with herself. Harry had always thought she'd have more time to let it become her title, that maybe in around nine months she'd be able to see it and apply it to herself. Yet fate had made it so now she wore the word like a badge, albeit awkwardly. She had met some of the other teen Mothers in the Hospital wards, and most she hadn't been able to really talk to. Many were homeless, or going through withdrawal symptoms from drugs. So she had quietly adjusted instead, settling into her new life and taking small pleasures day by day.

 

Sean visited frequently, often bringing in used baby clothes and toys from when he and his sister were children. Once or twice Clara came along too, and Harry found herself strangely drawn to the young woman in a way that she hadn't felt in a very long time. Sean's sister had the same sort of soft wavy hair that he did, and her eyes were a soft emerald green. At first she had been nervous, because she didn't know how the stranger would react to her baby. However Harry needn't have worried.

When Clara saw Robin she cooed in utter adoration, picking up the infant who squealed in obvious delight. Though Harry had known for a long time she swung both ways, it was strange to find someone she clicked so instantly with. With a certain rueful smile, she noticed the way Sean grinned in obvious pleasure at the tone of friendliness in their voices when they conversed.

 

Matchmaker indeed.

 

Hannah came once, smiling warmly and offering some heavily spiced tea. Harry accepted the gift and in a rare display of affection hugged the woman, thanking her for listening to all of her needs.

 

It was nearly three weeks before she heard word of her brother's welfare.

John had woken up, and Sherlock had nearly attacked a nurse to get to see him.

 

When she heard the news she laughed, looking down at the infant that rested just against her breast, and instinct even though Harry couldn't feed her that way.

“Let's go meet your uncle, shall we hon?”

 

Robin had gurgled happily in response.

Harry felt as if her family was finally starting to come back together.

 

****

“Sherlock. I'm all right.”

 

“I know. I know.....”

 

“.....Sherlock, stop it. I don't need help into the car....”

 

“Mm......”

 

“.....”

 

An audible sigh. Long and frustrated but amused nonetheless.

 

“You know, if you just wanted to hold my hand, all you had to do was ask.”

 

“I was merely trying to help you keep your balance, since from the tremor in your hand you seem to have a case of the shakes lately. Probably due to the fact that you are still unused to strenuous activity. Nothing more....Don't be dull....”

 

More silence, an awkward stretch that carries on for far too long in order to maintain dignity that neither of them really have, given the fact that they are allowing themselves to once again be kidnapped by an inscrutable black car.

 

“.....John?”

 

Another sigh, this one definitely amused.

Bordering on a chuckle.

“ _Yes_ Sherlock, you can.”

 

And the warmth of fingers interlocking; tentative but strong, John thinks is his favourite feeling in the entire world.

 

****

Funerals often remind John of bad things. He supposes that's normal, as most people do not usually sign up to go to funerals when they could be outside in the sunshine on a beach somewhere sipping a pint and watching the waves roll in against white-hot sand. However for John they are perhaps a little bit tenser, just a tad more mournful, because they remind him of his little brother's funeral, and how truly pathetic it had been. Only he and Harry had bothered to show up, and the only reason their sibling had been buried with a proper headstone at all was because Mother had saved up some money in her Will for such kinds of expenses just in case of an emergency. John remembered how it rained in thick sheets that had dampened his best clothes (really just a button-up and black trousers) and made his hair cling to his scalp and turn it dull and lifeless. He remembers how Harry, so strong and brave had held him. He also remembers how he couldn't cry, not with her all but choking him in a warm embrace.

It felt like betrayal, to begin sobbing and breaking down when the harsh fact was that he had been unable to protect his baby brother. He had then felt like he didn't deserve to shed tears, that he was somehow unworthy.

 

The funeral he attends now is much more different than Robin's. For one, lots of people arrive, all dressed in black or snow white, clinging to each other and crying loudly. The sun is also shining boldly, as if scorning the mourners with its' cheeriness as it falls over the cemetery. It turns the grass a vibrant, dazzling green. John squints at it, hands folded neatly in his lap as he stands next to Sherlock, feeling slightly out of place and amongst strangers as he looks about. Tomoya Kyousuke's family all stands higgedly-piggedly across the cemetery, his wife and only child being accosted by relatives and friends, all speaking falsely sweet words. The woman is pale and dark haired, and her eyes are red-rimmed in pain and crying. However her lip is stiff and strong and does not tremble as she thanks each person. Her back is ramrod straight like she is bearing the weight of a thousand eyes upon her.

 

John peeks a glance at Sherlock then, who has been silent for most of the car ride over. It is strange, because when he first woke up in the hospital, the teen hadn't been able to shut up. He had nearly given John a heart-attack with his incessant hovering and glowering mood, snarling at anyone who may have even looked remotely suspicious. And he had trembled, shook at the strangest of times and sometimes looked at John as if he was terrified it had all been a dream. That John had actually drowned in the lake. He only later found out that he very nearly _had_ died. Sherlock had plunged in after him, dragging him to the surface and administering CPR until the ambulances had arrived. Apparently his heart had stopped twice on the way to the hospital. Sherlock by his side the entire time. Now though some of that desperation had cooled, not extinguished but been put on a back-burner for a later time to be fully examined and dealt with. John suspected it would probably involve sex. Possibly crying. Maybe some shouting.

But they were fine, and that in the end was all that mattered.

 

As they stand in line he is a taller figure than most, his skin looking even paler than usual due to the onyx black suit he wears. His curls have been brushed unusually into some semblance of order, although an errant lock or two still refuses to be tamed. In this light they look almost brown instead of black, and his eyes appear to be the sort of washed-out blue that reminds John of rainfall on pavement. He is scowling slightly as he observes the people that are passing by in front of them, and the teen thinks he knows why.

 

“Almost none of them are actually here for viable reasons. That one is looking for inheritance, that one has always wanted to take the child away from his wife....”

 

His whisper-tight mutterings are spat at John like accusations, and the teen has to reach out a steadying hand on his sleeve so that his voice doesn't rise. Sherlock's voice growls on right by his ear, and John is suddenly grateful that it had been just him and his sister at Robin's funeral. Viciously, savagely grateful. At least with only the two of them, it had been evident that they were there because they had loved and lost someone precious to them. His breath comes out sharply in his anger at the strangers surrounding him, and his fists clench at his sides, one hands tightening around Sherlock's wrist. It only occurs to him that his grip might be painful when the Detective cuts off abruptly, wincing the slightest bit and staring down at his hand. John immediately lets go. His blue eyes flash him an apology, but he's not sure if Sherlock sees.

For most of the ceremony, the darkly-curled teen just stands with his fists clenched and his eyes thunderous, gazing off into the distance like he doesn't hear a word the Reverend says.

Except John knows he's listening, because at the end of the funeral, he takes the single white lily that some official gave him to place on the coffin, and instead gives it to the little Asian girl who's standing by her Mother, her dark eyes wide and red and sad. His voice is so soft that John barely hears what he says. Even when he does make out the words, he scarcely believes they come from the same mouth that had only half an hour before scorched the rest of the crowd with their own sins.

 

“For the one he treasured most.”

 

Akane Kyousuke regarded him with curious, dark eyes. Though she didn't say a word to him, she clutched the flower just a little tighter to her chest. Then she turned away without a goodbye and approached the burial lot, to join her Mother who sat at its' side in tears.

 

****

They are told that the school is giving everyone affected by Moriarty's plans up to a month of time off. That doesn't mean their work won't get shipped to them, nor does it mean that they still might not fail if they don't attend their classes. It just means they will be given some leeway, however slight. Personally, John feels as if school was an entire other lifetime ago. An elusive dream where murderers didn't run rampant and he had been little more than a child, running away from the one problem he could never face.

Accidentally charging head-on into another.

 

Mr. Swayzee, the supposed replacement for the Head of the school had vanished apparently in the night like a ghost. Like he had never existed at all. Apparently there was evidence found that he had been involved in some less than savoury endeavours. Also it was evident that he had been the one to allow Jim onto school grounds even after he became a wanted criminal.

As well Mr. Bentley's body was found washed up somewhere in Cardiff, his ex wife finally realizing he had been missing after visiting his flat.

 

Until they could find a replacement, Lestrade was actually filling in.

 

Which is the only reason John suspects that they've been given any time off at all. As they are dropped off to their flat, the teen realizes that Sherlock has become stiff and silent again. He realizes why when they both walk to their dorm and see the notice pinned on the door.

 

John peels the scrap of pink paper from its' pin, reading in disbelief the words written to him in blocky bold ink.

 

_**To: John H. Watson** _

_**Subject: Rooming** _

 

_**It has come to St. Adelaide's attention that you have entered into a relationship with one Sherlock Theodore Holmes. Though our school prides itself in being accepting and tolerant of all romantic endeavours of our students, we stand firm in the belief that here at school education must come first. As a result we are having you moved into a new room where you will be better able to focus on your studies, given the fact that with your large number of absences we feel it best if you are given every opportunity to achieve the level of academics we feel confident you can achieve.** _

 

_**You are to move your things to dorm 326 C by next Monday at the latest.** _

 

_**If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to contact St. Adelaide's staff.** _

 

_**Sincerely, Gregory Lestrade.** _

 

“They made him write this. Sodding rules.”

 

John growls, glaring in disbelief at the paper before scrunching it into a ball in his hands. It makes a satisfying crumbling noise as he chucks it out into the grass, rolling off into the mud so that the pink paper turns brown and dull. Sherlock, attempting to be funny, rumbles a reply.

 

“Funny, there was a time when you would have bent over backwards at the chance to room with someone else.”

 

He grins slightly as John chuckles, but his eyes are sad. They hold in them a quiet loneliness, a shard of the teen that the blonde youth had first met. The sociopath without anyone to talk to, and no one to argue with. It is a pale ghost of a reflection, but it is still frightening for John. The thought of leaving Sherlock sends tight constricting panic over him, even though the rational part of his brain knows that they still have at least one more year in the same school. However Sherlock is older, and he would be graduating long before John. In reality it seems that all there is is borrowed time.

Sherlock must have realized this long before him.

 

Overcome with the sudden need to show Sherlock that he isn't alone any more, John pulls at the lapels of his coat and makes him lean down, pressing his lips against his in a deep kiss. The flavour of Sherlock, faint smoke with black coffee and sharp mint permeates his lips, his mouth opening in invitation as the Detective presses him against the door of _**221 B**_. Sherlock's tongue slides into the heat of John's mouth, tongue's dancing and battling for supremacy. Almost playfully as the blonde teen's hand scrambles for the door knob, his legs threatening to turn into jelly if he doesn't get some oxygen into his system soon. They part with a gasp, breaths heavy against each other's skin as John's fingers finally prove themselves and he opens the door, dragging Sherlock inside the comfort of their Dorm with an aggressive tug that speaks of a different sort of frustration and impatience. The Detective soothes him by pressing a bruising kiss to the underside of John's jaw, tasting and teasing the tanned skin with the brush of his teeth and lips. The result is instantaneous and sends a thrill of arousal spiking straight through the man's abdomen and into his groin.

John tilts his head back and let out a long, needy grown, eyes fluttering shut as he tightens his grip about Sherlock's waist. The Detective's voice is low and hungry with desire, yet still sounds so unflappable. John realizes he wants to reduce Sherlock to babbling, to make him come apart in his hands. The thought sends shivers of heat down his spine.

 

“Is your plan to exact revenge on the school by shagging on every available surface in this room or is that just my base instincts reading that into you?”

 

John's voice is breathy and wondrously low as he begins working on each button of Sherlock's coat, his eyes glittering in such a way that makes Sherlock for some reason want to pin him to a wall and bite him.

_For another time._

 

He thinks, then stifles a groan as John presses a fluttering kiss to the inside of his pale collar-bone, a purple-pink bruise blossoming where his capable tongue lingered for just a second too long.

“I love the sounds you make, I've been thinking of them on and off, ever since Christmas.”

 

This time Sherlock doesn't bother to stifle the choking cry that works his way to his lips as John's hands brush against the front of his suit, tentatively palming the bulge resting just under his belt. The blonde teen rewarded the sound with a light swipe of his tongue against the outside of Sherlock's pants, causing the Detective's hips to buck involuntarily against John's mouth and his legs tremble as if to threaten rebellion against his body staying upright.

 

“And yes, revenge may or may not be forefront in my mind. Plus, I know right now you need something.... to take your mind off of things....”

 

At his words Sherlock stiffened slightly, his mind going unbidden to a place he didn't want to relive. The cold of the lake, John's muffled scream as he fell through the ice, Sherlock's outstretched hand closing on only air. Diving into the freezing water, his lungs burning and cursing him. Not caring. Kicking his way to the fast-sinking figure beneath him.

 

With a small tremor he was suddenly brought back to the warmth of the darkness of their Dorm by the clink of his belt being unfastened. John is looking up at him with a somewhat embarrassed smile, the flush creating a pretty shade of pink lingering on his cheeks.

“I've never done this before, I'm just going to be honest here, I'll probably be awful at this.”

 

Sherlock felt his lips quirk up slightly, thinking that it would be very hard for John to mess anything like this up. His voice is gentle, soothing.

“Neither have I really. At least not with anyone that mattered.”

 

John raised one eyebrow.

“Partners then?”

 

“To the very end.”

 

And later, they both saw stars burning in each other's eyes, glowing in the dark and lighting the night like faithful lamps to each other. Calling each other from the ocean of their own minds, breathing in each other like a familiar taste of home.

Never allowing the other to stray or get lost ever again.

And John closed his eyes, buried in the crook of Sherlock's neck with the utter wreckage of his bed surrounding him, and thought that perhaps falling in love in rare cases was worth it. 

That sometimes, it was inevitable as the rain falling back to Earth.

 


End file.
